Reap What You Sow
by Allaine
Summary: An AU spinoff from Chris Dee's String Theory. One little barroom fight turns out differently, and Poison Ivy's life changes in ways she could never dream.
1. Chapter 1

Of course Sly had known when he took the job that he would be dealing with an - interesting clientele.

And he'd realized how interesting his life had become when Harvey "Two-Face" Dent followed him all the way to Key West to bring him back to Gotham. And not at gunpoint either.

But he hadn't really understood what "interesting" meant until he found himself being toasted by a room filled with some of the city's most notorious criminals for having the Joker ejected from the Iceberg Lounge with his tail between his legs.

"To Sly everybody!" Edward Nigma said.

"TO SLY!"

Sly sighed and moved down the bar once he'd served Roxy Rocket her Long Island iced tea. The significance of what he'd done hadn't completely sunken in yet. The Joker - serial killer, completely insane, prone to pay his tab with orange $500 bills from a Monopoly set - and Sly had intervened when he had attempted to play stickball with Tom Blake's skull. You just didn't get in the Joker's way when he was in a killing mood, not if you didn't have a yellow utility belt and a cape on. But the Joker had been the one to back down.

All right, so he'd had help from Greg Brady, Killer Croc, and one of Pamela Isley's moving plants. Still, it was the principle of the thing. The Iceberg Lounge was (temporarily) his responsibility - until his boss got his drinking back under control, anyway. That meant it was his responsibility to make sure that a homicide wasn't committed on the dining room floor in front of television cameras.

He wondered what the Joker might do the next time he came in. You could never tell by looking at him whether he was nursing a grudge or not. Sly suddenly thought of that old fortune cookie saying. "May you live in interesting times."

Sly felt a tug on his elbow. He looked up from his work and found one of Miss Isley's plants - was it the one which the Joker had chased around a table or the other one? There was no way of knowing. Its tendrils were gently pulling at his arm. He looked across the room. Sure enough, Miss Isley was raising her glass from her seat at her table.

Tell a girl she has a nice smile, and she wants your company the rest of the night.

Of course, Sly had learned a long time ago that Pamela Isley and the Joker simply did NOT get along, so he supposed his role in tonight's "festivities" had only burnished his image in her eyes.

"The price of fame," Nigma said to Jervis as Sly made his way to Poison Ivy's table. "Tonight it's HIS turn to perform the 'ballad of humoring Pamela'."

"Wait, so the bartender sings too?" Jai asked him.

* * *

"So here's the truth, Pammy, direct from me to you: a healthy red-blooded guy will grab at anything once, particularly if it's rubbing up and down on him like a three-dollar whore." 

Three-dollar whore.

" . . . it's not even grooving on your lemon scented beauty . . ."

A woman who so craved the approval of her betters that she'd once made out with the Penguin at Harley's_ Christmas party_.

" . . . reminds them of all those daydreams they had about the naked gal in the magazines when they were fourteen . . . "

Later pretended she was the Mad Hatter's FIANCEE.

" . . . beating off to Daddy's Playboys . . ."

This woman had just dared to call her a _three-dollar whore?_

" . . . you gotta have something more than bare skin and a set of knockers going . . ."

Ivy didn't even notice that by now Roxy had trapped one of her wisterias in the crook of her elbow. She was still trying to process the sounds she was hearing. Surely there was a mistake. She hadn't just been insulted -

" . . . after I twist your head off and stick it on my tailpipe!"

By a two-bit, guttermouth thrill addict who would spread her legs for _Hugo Strange_ if he bought her a drink!

"Roxy," Sly said as he stood up, with the tone of someone who was already tired of having to break up these little inter-roguefights, "I know you weren't here a few minutes ago, but you know house rules. You can't just - "

"And you!" Roxy burst out, turning on him. "Tonight is YOUR night, and you're letting that garden slut fawn over you like - "

Men could be useful on occasion. Like when they made Roxy Rocket take her eyes off an enraged Poison Ivy. She wasn't able to properly defend herself as Ivy screeched and threw herself out of her booth, tackling Roxy across the waist and propelling her into another table. The table legs snapped under their combined weight, and they both fell to the floor.

"And there goes another table," Sly sighed.

Ivy was up first. Roxy tried to follow her, but she'd lost her grip on the wisteria and now the plant had tangled itself up in her legs, causing her to fall back down.

"Oh, you are SO going to get it now," Roxy hissed as she pushed herself up by her arms.

"I should think you'd appreciate this, Roxy," Ivy said before she smashed her across the back with a wooden chair. "Doesn't this just take you back to Stuntperson 101?"

And that made two chairs ruined that evening, Sly thought. "Miss Isley - "

Ivy shot Sly a look that said the Goddess was in the house, and now was not the time to tempt her.

The better part of valor forbade trying to explain to either woman that he was merely being friendly to Ivy . . . the better part of hotel-restaurant management forbade running from the fracas like a prudent man. And the better part of Iceberg survival strategy forbade drawing any more attention to himself than could be helped.

Even after the Joker confrontation, Sly hadn't really comprehended just how this job could be a little TOO interesting until that moment.

"That's going to come out of your tab," he added lamely, stepping back.

"Sounds like someone's going to be leaving the red light on for a while," Roxy mocked her as she tried once again to get up.

Ivy was not the martial-arts mistress that some people were, but she had more than enough coordination to put her foot in Roxy's face as she rose. "Try saying three-dollar whore again with my foot on your throat, eh," Ivy snarled.

"Three – lgh - Dollar – Oulgh - WhoeeeeeeeeEEE!"

"She bit me!"

* * *

Harley would have liked to think that the commotion coming from the dining room was being caused by Mistah J, devastated by the news of an impending Brucie-Selina breakup, but it was too soon, and the laughter she heard wasn't HIS laughter. In fact, it sounded more like – "Red?" she asked out loud. 

"She complains about the tables here enough," Blake grumbled from the door between the bar and the dining room, "but she doesn't shrink from using them as lethal weapons."

"Yes, but unlike some of us, Blake," Eddie said from the other end of the bar, "she has sense enough not to destroy the one that cost fourteen hundred dollars."

"Red's in a fight?" Harley asked. "With who?"

"Roxy Rocket," Blake reported. "I think she's stopped trying to get up."

"Has that stopped Ivy?"

"Not yet."

"Maybe I should do something," Harley said hesitantly, although lately Ivy had been strangely distant. Started right around the time she went on a crime spree with Harvey, too.

"I don't think that would be a good idea, Harley," Eddie told her. "I don't remember the last time somebody died at the Iceberg, and there's a pool on whether or not Ivy will break the streak. If you interfere, there'll be a lot of ruined wagers on your head."

"Oh," Harley said. "Maybe I'll just watch then. Sly, could you – where's Sly?"

"Probably hiding on the floor," Blake muttered.

"Shhh," Eddie cautioned.

"On the floor trying to get _underneath_ the floor."

* * *

"You've been trying to sleep your way into the A-list, Roxy," Ivy said gaily as she watched Roxy crawling toward the barroom door. She twirled a chair leg in one hand. "And that's not the way. You don't earn respect by giving the Bats 'a good chase'. ANYONE can run from the Bat. You've got to be willing to _kill_." 

Sly didn't think anyone would be toasting him when this was over. He couldn't see how he could stop this fight before Poison Ivy – funny how he'd stopped thinking of her as "Miss Isley" – put him into a green haze.

"You've got to put a few selfish, worthless, plant-murdering civilians in harm's way if it gets you closer to the prize, Roxy," Ivy said, jabbing her in the back with the sharp end of the chair leg. "Or execute someone because his company has been dumping toxic waste in hardwood forests. That's why people don't respect you, Roxy. You lack purpose. You're just in it for a _good time_," she sneered.

"Now, people like myself," she went on, "we're respected AND feared because we understand that other people live only by our own good graces. If I decide someone annoys me, they don't exist any more. And you have been _quite_ exasperating tonight."

As much as Sly had feared getting in the middle of this, Ivy was sounding more and more like someone in a killing mood. He had just one weapon at his disposal, the very same one he had threatened Joker with. He felt as troubled using it now as he had then. It struck him as presumptuous. Wielding this power was the boss' prerogative, and he wasn't _really_ the boss.

But, as before, he couldn't let an Iceberg customer murder someone on national television. Even if it was cable.

"Miss Isley," he said, "if you don't stop right now, you're going to be banned from the Lounge permanently."

She whirled on him. "Banned? _Me?"_

"I told Mr. Joker the same thing when he was about to do the same thing you're doing."

The look on her face said all that needed to be said about how she liked being compared to the Joker. "You're not the Penguin, Sly."

"He finds out you killed someone in his dining room, in front of cameras, he'll do the same."

Ivy looked around, and Sly realized she'd forgotten they were even there. She frowned, then shrugged and tossed the makeshift club aside. Then she stalked over to the nearest henchman. "Wallet," she said, pointing at him.

Instantly greened, the hapless man handed it over.

Purposely, she drew two singles from the man's wallet and tossed it back. Then she walked back toward Roxy. "For your time," she said witheringly, throwing the bills on the floor next to her.

Then she calmly went back to her booth.

Sly went past her without even looking at her. She stopped and watched him go, disgusted. Even Sly, like every other man, seemed to be good for a distraction, little more.

Still, as Ivy smoothed out her locks, this little exercise had its uses. Other customers regarded her with a bit more respect and fear than, accustomed to her presence, they had in the past.

On the other hand, the bartender appeared to have vanished, and five minutes later the waitress _still_ had not brought her a fresh Cosmopolitan.

Overall, though, having witnessed the humiliated exits of both Joker and Roxy made this a good night.

"UNHAND ME YOU HA-HA HARLOT!"

That is, it _was_ a good night.

* * *

"WOOHOO!" Harley cheered, "Look at you guys! Cut him up, DEMON guys, cut him up good. That'll teach him to go laughing at his own stupid joke cause nobody else will. You know why you gotta laugh at it yourself, Puddin, cause it's not funny. It sucks. It's stupid and it sucks. And the only ones stupid enough to pretend it doesn't suck are the henchman that only laugh cause you pay'em to. Like YOU, Giggles, you laughed at that stupid thing. Well the day of reckoning is coming, Buddy!" 

Harley drew back and landed a spectacular punch on Greg Brady's jaw. His head bobbed back slightly, but under the influence of Ivy's pheromones he barely even blinked.

One group of people that proved similarly unfazed by Harley's punch were F'Nos and his "DEMON guys". They'd slowed to a halt within moments of entering the dining room and surrounding the Joker as they, too, were hit by the heavy, fruity aroma of Ivy's pheromones that hung in the air. Still, predisposed as they were to see the Joker as a threat to "Gr'oriBr'di", their swords already drawn and pointed at him, the DEMON minions were so hypnotized by their first exposure to the enormous amounts of "Lemon Pledge" Poison Ivy was emitting that ANY suggestion, even from someone other than Ivy, was liable to push them over the edge.

"Cut him up good," they murmured as Joker found himself encircled by swords pointing right at him.

"Heh heh," Joker said, swallowing. "Eh, Harley? Little help here?"

"And THAT goes for the rest of you too!" Harley went on, railing at the room, temporarily forgetting that ever since Poison Ivy had resorted to blanketing the whole area with her lemon-scented pheromones in response to the Penguin pointing a loaded gun at her, nearly every man in the room had become mesmerized by her beauty. "Don't think I haven't noticed. I see. I see who of you laughs at that joke, and come the revolution you're gonna be the first ones against the wall, ya hear me!"

Her looking everywhere EXCEPT the Joker was about to become a fatal mistake.

* * *

**..: OraCom Channel 4: Batmobile :..**

: Oh my dear lord. :

"Oracle? What kind of report is that?"

: Um, sorry Boss. What's your ETA getting back to the Iceberg:

"Six minutes. Has he been spotted?"

: Yeah. And if you don't speed it up, he might be sliced and diced too. :

* * *

The only other person paying attention to the Joker's situation, and who unlike Oracle was in a position to do something about it, was Ivy. But she just smiled and sipped at her drink. _That's what you get for making me share a cab with you, you pasty-faced freak._

"HAR-LEY!"

"What! I do NOT answer to your beck and call any - " Harley said as she turned on him, infuriated.

She looked just in time to see F'Nos' saber tear the Joker's throat out.

"More?" she finished in a whisper.

The Joker couldn't even shriek as blood bubbled into his mouth. Swords went up and fell down in an almost rhythmic pattern. The umbrella he'd borrowed from Penguin's stash was almost contemptuously hurled from the ring, and it skidded and bounced into Harley's ankles.

"Puddin! Puddin, no, no, no, what are you DOOOING?" Harley screamed, clutching her tassels and pulling them taut in her distress.

Ivy had been observing the bloodshed with a triumphant sense of satisfaction, but when she witnessed Harley going to pieces, she sighed. He had to be dead by now anyway. "Stop this, now!" she demanded, seeing that Harley was too distraught to think of ordering them off herself.

Mechanically the DEMON soldiers ceased attacking, and Harley ran forward, squeezing through their ranks. "Mistah J!"

"Harley, don't!"

There was quiet for a moment.

"AAAAIIIIIIEEEEEEE!"

Ivy mentally weighed the pleasure she might gain in seeing the Joker's mutilated corpse against the visual of Harley hugging his body, wallowing in his blood, and decided it really wasn't worth it. Still, someone needed to get Harley out of there. Or at least stop her screaming.

She looked around the room and saw she had a wealth of men to choose from - a wealth of numbers, anyway. There were plenty of DEMON assassins, of course, but Ivy doubted Harley would cooperate with one of THEM. "Greg Brady," she finally said. "Since you and Harley have something of a work history together, perhaps you could bring her to the back room so she can calm down?"

"Right," he said. "F'Nos! You and the guys, just take a few steps back."

Ivy turned away before she got any glimpses of Harley behaving like the tragic heroine from a movie and found herself looking at Penguin. He was still clutching his umbrella machine gun, pointed at her now, but the look in his eye told her that by now he'd forgotten it was in his hand.

Ironic that earlier that night she'd forgone greening Sly because of what Oswald might do, and now she'd gone and greened the Penguin himself.

Thinking that reminded her of Sly's announced intention to have her temporarily banned for fighting. "Ozzie," she breathed, putting a hand on his shoulder. "If Sly said I'd done something just the smallest bit bad and I needed to be punished, you wouldn't hold it against me, would you?"

"Kwak-kwak, that Benedict Arnold, that traitorous nest-stealer!" Penguin thundered. "He thinks he can expel you, a bird of paradise, a paradigm of loveliness, from here like he thinks he can do to me? Why, if anyone shall be banned, it is he!"

"That's my Pengy," Ivy said. The things she said to ensure access to a good Cosmopolitan.

Of course, Sly was the one who usually made said Cosmopolitan. Oh, well.

Ivy's eyes lit on a nearby table, and she smiled. While she had this opportunity . . . "And Oswald?" she asked. "Maybe we could talk about these paper napkins."

While Raven and a few waitresses milled around, unsure of what to do while almost every man in the house was in a daze but quite sure they didn't want to go anywhere NEAR what used to be the Joker, Ted and Jai slowly rose from behind the bar.

"I don't think we're going to be able to use tonight's footage," Ted said.

"Unless we sell it to the evening news," Jai added.

* * *

Batman reviewed the crime scene grimly. While his earlier prediction of death at the Iceberg that night had proven true, it was the man he believed would be responsible for those deaths who was now lying dead himself. His wounds were consistent with being hacked to death by multiple sharp objects, and there were twenty DEMON agents present in the bar armed with bloodstained swords. Oracle had confirmed from the video feeds that the DEMON minions had done the cutting. For the moment they were standing mutely along the wall – probably Brady's doing - but when questioned Batman was sure they would admit their guilt. It should have been a simple, albeit gruesome, case. 

But it wasn't.

Apparently the Joker had entered the Iceberg Lounge for a second time, this time armed with a machine-gun disguised as an umbrella, and with the Penguin in tow. They had been attempting to take Penguin's own _customers_ hostage when the DEMON soldiers arrived and the bloodshed began.

And although the Rogues and other customers appeared to be their normal selves, Batman's nose detected a hint in the air of what they called "Lemon Pledge", and which he recognized as the pheromone Poison Ivy emitted when she was enslaving someone, or simply angry. Ivy herself was sitting in her corner booth, watching everyone with an indecipherable expression in her eyes. She should have been celebrating the death of a man she'd despised for years.

But she wasn't.

Neither was he.

Some might think he would be happy to see the Joker lying on the Iceberg floor in pieces, but they would be wrong. The twisted lunatic had taken more lives and destroyed more property than anyone in the history of the city, and showed no signs of ever changing, but "an eye for an eye" was the path of vengeance, not the path of justice. The Batman did not kill, nor did he allow others to kill for him. Tomorrow or next week he might at least be able to feel relief for the people who otherwise might have died at Joker's hands, but right now he only felt sick.

While he was waiting for Oracle to report back with more detailed information on what the Fab! video feeds had captured, he had several options for gathering information. Greg Brady had witnessed everything, and since they were working together on DEMON, he would be most willing to talk. But if he'd been under the influence of Ivy's pheromones - and he must have been if he hadn't stopped his own minions from hacking the Joker to death - then his memory would be a little "hazy". Harley Quinn had been closest to the incident and wouldn't have been affected by Ivy's pheromones, but she was probably hysterical after witnessing "Puddin's" murder. He wasn't even sure where she was at the moment. For that matter, Brady was also missing. As was Penguin, who had been Joker's accomplice in the first place. But he could worry about him later.

That left Poison Ivy, who was notoriously difficult to deal with, but also appeared to be his only alternative until he heard back from Oracle. He went over to her table and discovered one of his questions was answered for him. Sitting in the rear of her corner booth, partially obscured by the greenery that tended to adorn her table, was Oswald Cobblepot. He should have been more upset, considering his Lounge was about to become crawling with police, but his placid demeanor and glazed eye told Batman that he was still under Ivy's influence.

"Ivy," he growled. "How much of this is your handiwork?"

"You can't think I had something to do with that," she said, waving her hand in the vague direction of Joker's body. "If I was going to kill him, I would have done it a very long time ago."

"And him?" he asked, gesturing at Penguin.

"Well, he DID come in brandishing a gun at me," she told him. "And Joker was saying something about wanting revenge on one of my babies. I couldn't just let him threaten me OR my plants. So I greened him. Isn't that right, Oswald?"

"My dear," he said humbly, "I regret ever giving you the impression that I wished you harm. I cannot imagine what I was thinking."

"That's all right, I won't hold it against you," she consoled him.

"So what did happen here?" Batman demanded.

She scowled at him. "It's really very simple," she finally said. "Surely the 'world's greatest detective' can figure it out."

"Those men are from DEMON," Batman growled. "They're trained killers."

"I find most men are born as killers, not made that way," Ivy sneered.

"And since the Joker is immune to your pheromones, you put them under your control instead and ordered them to kill him before he killed you OR your precious babies."

Ivy chuckled. "Oh, I had my way with them, but I never told them to do anything. Men are so unreliable these days, I find it better if I do things myself. No, they came in with swords drawn at Joker. They'd obviously already made up their mind to kill him. My influence didn't change that."

"It could have. You could have ordered them to stop."

"Why would I do something silly like that?"

Batman realized he was clenching and unclenching his fist again, and he stopped himself. "Where's Harley?"

"Harley and I aren't exactly on speaking terms since she had a go as Harvey's sidekick," Ivy said angrily. Then she sighed. "But she's in the back room with Greg Brady. She became quite emotional, you understand."

"And you couldn't even offer her a shoulder to cry on?"

Ivy's expression darkened. "I did that enough times when Joker was alive. I decided I was through doing that when they split up, and his being dead isn't going to change that."

"Boss?"

Batman glared at Ivy without answering Oracle at first. Of course Ivy was withholding something. And he was going to find out what, but not right away. "This isn't finished," he told her before he strode away.

Ivy shrugged and picked up her drink. "He looks finished to me," she muttered.

"Oracle, come in," Batman murmured as he headed for the back room. "Do you have anything?"

"I've analyzed the video feeds five times over," she said. "And Poison Ivy never moved her lips. So if they WERE greened - "

"They were."

"Well, the order to kill never came from her. In fact, it looks like she's the one who made them stop. I DID make out from Harley Quinn's lips that she told them to 'cut him up', but there's never been any suggestion that other people besides Ivy can control her slaves."

"These men were new to Gotham," Batman pointed out. "They probably couldn't tell between Quinn's voice and Ivy's if they wanted to. It's possible that in that state, they might have interpreted ANY woman's voice as Ivy's."

"You're not saying - that Harley Quinn had the Joker murdered? I saw the video. When the Joker was attacked, she had a meltdown."

Normally he wouldn't have considered it, but after she'd left all of Joker's things for him at the Bat-signal . . . "No," he said after a moment. "She couldn't have known either that her words might have an effect on them. She was probably just acting out, impulsive as always." He paused. "If she's even responsible." But if Harley even suspected she might be responsible, then her hysterics took on a whole new dimension.

"Well, Greg Brady - "

"Is with Harley in the back, I know," he interrupted. "I'm on my way there now. Joker's killers report to Brady, so they may have told him why they did it."

He found them in the back room where customers slept off their booze when they'd had too much. Harley was bawling in a corner, arms wrapped around her knees and drawing them tight against her chest. Rhythmically she banged her forehead on the wall. Greg Brady was watching helplessly, but when he saw Batman, he put a finger on his lips and forcibly led the hero back out into the hallway. "Can't you see she's had enough?" he asked.

"What happened tonight? Why are you here instead of Sly?"

"Sly took Roxy Rocket to the hospital a couple minutes before the Joker came back," Greg explained. "She provoked a fight with Ivy and came up _real_ short, so Sly asked me to watch the place. As for the Joker, I don't know. I don't remember much. I think Ivy gassed the place."

"What about your men? You're responsible for them, aren't you?"

"Hey, dude, don't remind me," Greg said, looking pained. "You think I want to see those twenty guys get shipped to Blackgate for life? They're not too sure either, about what happened I mean. F'Nos says he brought them here because of some plot the Joker was cooking – I guess he got a whiff of what the Joker and Cobblepot were planning. They were ready to kill the Joker if they had to, but they don't really remember WHY they did it. Something just told them."

"Her, maybe?" Batman asked, looking at the door behind Greg.

"Kinda odd reaction then, wouldn't you say?" Greg replied.

"I assume you told them to stand down."

"Yeah."

"The police will be here any minute. I want you to order them to confess to everything they did tonight, and to turn themselves in peacefully. I'm not going to have Ra's' men killing anyone else tonight."

Greg chewed on that for a moment. "Guess there isn't a choice."

"No," Batman graveled. "I'll have to take Harley in the meantime. She'll need to be sedated."

"Her? What for?"

Batman just looked at him.

"Right, right," Greg said, holding his palms up. "Not my business. Whatever. Man, I hope Sly doesn't lose his job over this."

"Right now I'd say this establishment has bigger problems," Batman replied, thinking of the hypnotized Penguin out front and the blood on the floors.

Five minutes later the DEMON minions were turning over their swords to police officers, and Batman was carrying a sleeping Harley Quinn out to the Batmobile. Neither Ivy nor Penguin were anywhere to be seen. Obviously they'd cleared out with all the other criminals. Penguin would have to answer for his attempted hostage taking earlier, but that could wait.

Ivy watched him go through a crack in Penguin's office door while the old bird slept on a couch. Arkham – would probably be best for Harley, if in the short run. Ivy simply didn't care to try being sympathetic to her. Given a couple days, she'd get over it, and with the object of her obsession gone, she'd find other things to focus on.

And then Ivy's life would be perfect.

She turned back toward Oswald's desk. It appeared whoever had been in here last had been going over the books – the books for his black market activities, that is. Curious, she started to read.

To be continued . . .


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"You know, 'Lina," Eddie said as he flattened his napkin in his lap, "for a moment there I actually thought he wasn't going to seat me. I got the distinct impression that he didn't think I was worthy of your company."

"Maybe it was the tie," Selina murmured teasingly, eyeing the loud green fabric with its purple and red question marks.

"It IS silk," he said, a trifle defensive.

"Well, Giovanni can be very particular."

They looked at each other for a second before a grin broke out on Eddie's face. "Heard the latest?" he asked.

Selina chuckled. "I may have seen something in the back of the newspaper."

"Not the Gotham Post," Eddie replied. "According to the Gotham Post, Joker is not only NOT dead, but he's on tour with Elvis and Mytzlplik on Mars. The White Martians eat that brand of humor up, I'm told. You know, the problem with Joker was - "

"The?" Selina asked. "You make it sound like there was only one."

"The problem with the WORD 'Joker' was that you really can't make a good anagram out of it. But JOKER IS DEAD - aha! SO A JERK DIED! See, that's what only people like you and I GET about this. It's not about the people he's not going to kill now. It's about _not having to see him at any more parties!_"

Eddie was exaggerating a bit when he said it wasn't about the lives that wouldn't meet a premature end, Selina thought, but she was more than willing to let it slide. Truth was, one of Joker's many flaws was how obnoxious he had been. Even worse was the fact that you couldn't TELL him how obnoxious he was without risking an attempt on your life. Not having to put up with his laugh at the Iceberg any more was almost too good to be true.

And best of all, it WAS true. Joker had cheated death a dozen times before, but this time there was actual video footage (without sound - pity),not to mention Bruce's confirmation. The Joker had been unceremoniously hacked to bits by twenty of Ra's al Ghul's minions. Selina privately thought that this partially made up for the calcified "hairdo" having fathered Talia.

So Selina had wanted to celebrate the news, but Bruce simply wasn't "in the mood" for celebrating. He was genuinely upset about Joker's death. Nobody was supposed to be murdered in his city, even if they were murderers themselves, and when it did happen, it certainly wasn't supposed to go unpunished. There were too many unanswered questions for him to rest easy that justice, true justice, had been done to _all_ those responsible. Selina respected this, but she hoped he'd realize in time that there wasn't anything he could have done, and that this was for the best.

But that was the future. For now, she wanted to smile, laugh, and sip some bubbly and he didn't. Since she didn't feel like just WAITING around for him to be in a better mood, she'd sought out someone who could better appreciate the situation. And since Harvey was still in Arkham, Eddie was the obvious choice.

Plus he had actually BEEN there when it happened. Selina wasn't just there for chitchat. She wanted information. There was still some confusion as to _why_ Joker had been killed, and Selina hoped an actual eyewitness could shed more light.

"So," she asked, "what is everyone saying about it?"

"Well," Eddie told her, "the henchmen are relieved because Joker was the undefeated champion in the 'Most Likely to Kill Your Hired Goons' competition. And some of the A-listers are happy because they were convinced Joker would be the one to kill the Batman. Now they figure it's wide open."

Selina wasn't exactly happy about that. Joker no longer being a threat to Bruce was a good thing. Six other Rogues looking to fill the vacuum was not.

"As for the rest," Eddie continued, "it's hard to say. Since the Iceberg became a crime scene and was temporarily shut down, information has been spreading a lot more slowly. I don't think people realized how important a part of the rumor mill the Iceberg was until now."

"That reminds me," Selina said. "Is it true that the Penguin really tried to take his OWN customers hostage?" Of course she already knew that he had. The night of the murder Bruce had endlessly reviewed the video feeds from the television show, hoping to understand what had happened, and she'd joined him for several repetitions. But Eddie couldn't know that, and so she had to play dumb.

"Yep," Eddie said. "One of my last clear memories was Oswald storming in with one of his umbrella guns. No one's seen him since that night. I imagine he's hiding until people stop asking what he was thinking."

Selina frowned slightly. Bruce had warned her of the likelihood that Poison Ivy had liberally doused the Lounge with her pheromones, and men's minds tended to get a bit foggy when that happened, but she'd been hoping that wasn't the case. "Your last clear memory?"

It was Eddie's turn to frown, but his was more pronounced. "Six months from now," he said after a moment, "every groupie in Gotham will say they were there the night the Joker died. And even though they'll be making the story up – that Simon Cowell guy from American Idol runs in crying 'Sic Semper Tyrannus' and stabbed Joker with an icepick - they'll _still_ have a better tale than me, because I don't remember what happened."

"Why not?"

"Lemon Pledge."

"Ah."

"I didn't much appreciate it the last time Pammy spritzed me," he went on, "and I don't appreciate it now either. At least I didn't wake up with a dandelion in my belt."

"Come on, you have to have something," Selina coaxed him. "Why did Ra's do it?"

He sighed. "There's still a serious debate about that. Some people say Ra's found out Joker was the first one to call him 'the Cadaver'. Some think he resented the Joker's claim that he was the Bat's most dangerous adversary. And some people argue that it was Greg Brady who's responsible."

Selina almost choked on her drink. "_Giggles_ Greg Brady! Mister with-a-name-like-mine-crime-was-the-only-option? What, it wasn't enough he survived working for Joker, Brady had to kill him too?"

Eddie nodded. "The killers worked directly under him, didn't they? So maybe they were his bodyguard**s**. Brady was one of the people who stood up to the Joker when Sly had him thrown out. Joker comes back, the DEMON boys see him as a threat, and SAD DIRE JOKE."

"But if you and every other man in the building was greened," Selina said, pointing out what had occurred to her almost immediately, "then so were Greg and the DEMON flunkies. So why isn't anyone stating the obvious?"

"What, that Poison Ivy killed him?" Eddie asked wryly.

"No, that she was the second gunman on the grassy knoll. Of course that she killed him, Eddie. Is it _really_ that farfetched?"

"Farfetched? Of course not, no. But you've got to understand, Selina. Nobody is very happy with Pammy right now. It's bad enough that she greened a room full of people AGAIN - Blake's lucky he didn't donate the proceeds from his last heist to Greenpeace like he did the LAST time she dosed him. But to do it at such a time! She deprived some of us the pleasure of seeing the Joker meet his maker, and everyone else the story of how it happened!"

Of course, if she hadn't used her pheromones, the Joker might not be dead in the first place. Selina didn't bother to say this, though. She certainly didn't want to sound like she was DEFENDING Ivy.

"So at this point," Eddie went on, "nobody is inclined to give her any credit for killing the Joker. That's her punishment. Plus there's the Roxy situation."

"What Roxy situation?" Selina asked.

He blinked. "Oh, right," he said. "I guess the news got overshadowed REAL fast. Ivy almost beat Roxy Rocket into a coma that night."

Selina HADN'T known about this. Bruce had been so focused on the Joker incident that all other matters had fallen by the wayside. "Ivy did that?" she asked dubiously. "She's not exactly the physical type, you know."

"Now THIS I have a clear memory of," Eddie confirmed. "Roxy picked a fight with her, got distracted, and Pammy blindsided her. Roxy never really had a chance to defend herself. There were a lot of wagers that night on whether or not Ivy was going to kill her, but Sly stopped the fight and the bets were called off. Another reason people aren't happy with her," he added. "She couldn't kill Roxy fast enough to win them some money."

Selina chewed her lip. Roxy wasn't exactly a friend, but she was nowhere near the pain Ivy was. "Is Roxy all right?" she asked.

"Sly took her to the hospital," Eddie said. "That's the last I heard."

"What, no flowers?" she asked dryly.

"Like I said, Joker died and Roxy fell off the radar. I guess Sly could tell you, but . . ." He shrugged. "Again, no Iceberg."

Selina tried to hide the disappointment she felt. She wouldn't have suggested lunch at D'Annunzio's if she'd known how little Eddie really knew about Joker's death. Bruce had been obsessing over getting the real story behind the murder, seeing all those responsible put behind bars, and she just wanted him to get past this and focus on more positive things. Like the additional free time he was going to have now that he didn't have to worry about that menace any longer. The recent incident with Harley and Joker's notebook full of ideas had just gone to show that the clown was as unpredictable as ever. And now, just like that, he was gone, and through no fault of Bruce's own.

Plus she'd been hoping to solve the case first, and to do so through her special sources as Catwoman.

In fact, she'd been hoping to return to the manor and say something like, "I just had lunch with Eddie. And before you get that look on your face that says 'You need better friends, Kitten', he's the one who told me why the Joker was killed."

Now, however, it seemed that her sources were turning up just as empty. Woof.

Then she leaned back, reminded of something by her own thoughts. "And how is Harley taking it?" she asked.

Eddie didn't answer at first. Selina knew that he had a checkered history with Harley, having once been subjected to endless renditions of "76 Trombones" in his head as payback for a brief flirtation with her. "Not well, like you'd imagine," he finally said.

"Well, duh, Eddie. I could have guessed that myself."

"No one's really sure," he said. "When I saw her at the Iceberg that night, she was fine. Later, after the effects of the pheromones wore off and I noticed what had happened, she was gone. Next thing I heard, they were treating her at Arkham. No one's been released in the past two days, so - "

"And nobody's gone to see how she's doing? Or even to find out what she knows?" she asked impatiently.

"Selina, she's probably been blubbering for the past two days, and she'll probably STILL be crying about it tomorrow. Personally, I'm trying to enjoy Joker being gone, not have Harley kill my buzz. Who'd want to be around Harley at a time like this?"

* * *

Jervis drummed his fingers anxiously as he slouched in his chair. "Jam yesterday, jam tomorrow, but never jam today," he muttered. But perhaps this time there could be jam for him, if only he knew when that day WAS. Harley Quinn-flavored jam, that was.

Yesterday Scarecrow had observed that one of the benefits of having the Joker dead was no more violating the spirit of the holiday by showing up at his Halloween parties dressed as a clown. That had led to talk of the annual Christmas party, which Joker and Harley had usually hosted. Jervis had pointed out that Quinn had carried on the tradition even when the Joker was in Arkham, so there was no reason to think the future would be any different. Besides, rigging the Secret Santa had become something of a tradition for him, and he would hate for that to end.

It was only after that conversation that Jervis had realized there were more benefits to no more Joker than, well, "no more Joker". Harley Quinn had finally become a free agent.

While it was common knowledge that Joker and Harley had split up months ago, nobody had enlisted her services as a "henchwench". She'd been Joker's sidekick for years, and undoubtedly she knew all the ins and outs of being a proper henchperson - how to arrange an appointment with Kittlemeier, how to distract the Bat while her employer made his escape, et cetera. Yet she'd been on her own all this time, because no one knew just how Joker might react to her working for someone else. He might take it as a kind of encroachment on his territory. The fact that they were no longer an item wouldn't mean anything to the lunatic.

Now, however, with the Joker quite unable to visit his wrath upon others, Harley Quinn would be a prized commodity for any A-list Rogue. It might even be seen as a rise in one's stature to be chosen by the _Joker's_ longtime henchwench.

Admittedly, if he wished to employ her, he couldn't ask her to be his "Alice". Her identity as "Harley Quinn" had become too well-entrenched. Jervis thought he could make it work, however. Her costume was reminiscent of playing cards, and Wonderland was populated with playing card soldiers, not to mention the Queen and King of Hearts.

Plus, Jervis thought privately, there was an added perk. Harley had of course been Joker's lover for years. Was it not possible that she might do the same for her NEW employer? For years he'd thought it a great injustice that Joker, the most undeserving man on the _planet_, had her undying devotion. Even told her that to her face once. It would be quite ironic if Harley became his in the end.

So it was a simple matter, really. Harley Quinn was a prize. He would not be the only Rogue to reach this conclusion. And of course there was Poison Ivy. He wasn't quite sure why the two friends hadn't become that much closer after the breakup, but surely now there could be no stumbling block between the ladies becoming a permanent duo. Speed was of the essence. Memories of other opportunities lost because of his tardiness still rankled him. Only a few months before, when it became official that Catwoman was moving into Wayne Manor, it was quickly realized that her apartment with its prime location would become available. Jervis had been far from the first person to look into the matter, and he'd been shut out.

He sipped his tea. There was just one problem. Harley was undoubtedly mired deep in her grief. Whether they had been together or not, Harley had remained obsessed with the man, and all reports indicated she had witnessed his death. To come to her NOW with an employment offer would probably be seen as a rude intrusion, and he would lose out because he acted TOO quickly.

That was the rub. How soon was too soon? How long was too long? When would it be jam today?

At least the other Rogues were facing the same dilemma. Perhaps they themselves would move too fast, and knock themselves from the chessboard.

It was then that a horrible thought struck him. There was ONE other person who Harley had worked with since the split. One person who was currently at Arkham, and therefore had unfettered access to her. One person - or rather, two people.

Harvey Two-Face Dent.

The Mad Hatter suddenly set his tea down in a state of agitation. Dent had been a notorious playboy in his younger days, and currently he was one of the few Rogues whose status exceeded Jervis's own. Harley's look could easily be made to fit with Dent's - the two-toned costume split down the middle, the two tassels, those two nice, perky . . . other things.

"That jabberwock!" Jervis hissed, already picturing Two-Face all over Harley. Offering a shoulder to cry on, talking about the love he'd lost after he'd been scarred, reading her body language, knowing the _exact_ moment to pounce!

Well, two could play at that game. And that was a "two" reference that Dent would rue some day soon!

And so thirty minutes later the Mad Hatter was checking himself into fast-track rehabilitation at Arkham Asylum.

* * *

Ivy pushed the black ledger aside and leaned back thoughtfully in Oswald's chair. She'd spent most of the past two days in this dark, windowless office - normally the only times she spent that much time out of the sun were in Arkham. But she'd learned a great deal.

It was common knowledge that the Iceberg Lounge was merely a front for the Penguin's activities on the black market. Ivy, however, had assumed that Oswald was but a minor player in that scene, just doing a little fencing from his office during business hours, enjoying his status as a member of the "Old Guard". As it turned out, however, Penguin was far from semi-retired. Although his record-keeping had recently grown sloppy, Penguin appeared to be moving millions in weapons and stolen goods in and out of Gotham every MONTH. And there were other activities she'd never even guessed he was engaged in – gambling, kickbacks, money laundering . . .

Ivy was irritated, however, by her discovery that Penguin didn't seem to know what to do with what he had. Money should be like the kudzu vine, spreading out always in all directions, eventually covering seven million acres of the South. Instead, Oswald seemed content to use the profits from his illegitimate business to enhance his own personal net worth, and to subsidize the money-losing operations of the Iceberg. Twenty years ago Penguin would have been amassing this fortune as a means to an end, a grand scheme to destroy the Batman or take over the city. Now wealth appeared to be an end in itself. How like a man.

If only Ivy had that kind of steady influx of cash, the plans she could put into effect . . .

And that was why she'd been sitting in the dark for two days. Because of her unique body chemistry, Ivy could feel the effects of alcohol or choose not to, but liquor had nothing to do with the growing intoxication she felt. Why stop with napkins? Why not take the opportunity granted her, and keep the Penguin's empire all to herself? Then his ill-gotten gains could be put to better use.

That, however, meant she had to first do something about the Penguin himself.

Although she couldn't see him from the office with the door closed, Ivy nonetheless looked in the direction of the front half of the Iceberg. Somewhere on the main floor Penguin would be sitting, still enraptured by her very proximity. She would have had to make a decision about him anyway, even if his records had only turned up a mountain of bills. She'd kept him high on her pheromones for two days now, since his aborted hostage-taking attempt, spritzing him whenever he approached the time where the effects would start to wear off. If she simply stopped, Ivy suspected he would not be very pleased with her.

She rebelled at the notion of killing him, though. Besides vastly complicating the task of acquiring his assets, Penguin did have a certain standing among his fellow Rogues. It was he who thought of the Iceberg Lounge in the first place, which Ivy grudgingly admitted had been a brilliant idea. If she murdered him, she would be generating a great deal of ill feelings among the very people she would be doing business with.

And now that she'd set her mind to taking over his operations, there was a third reason to keep him alive. Ivy was the Goddess, Gaia incarnate. Men served her, not the other way around. With Oswald around and under her control, he could go on handling the day-to-day affairs of the Lounge, maintaining the front of legitimacy. That would leave Ivy to collect the profits without having to do any of the work herself.

So, the Penguin would go on living as her besotted slave. Constantly having to use her pheromones on him, however, was growing increasingly tedious. She wouldn't be able to leave his side for more than a few hours at a time. If only she had more power, but even she had her limits.

Ivy paused. There WAS that one time, she remembered. It wasn't exactly a day she liked to remember, but at those dreadful Highland Games, prior to the disastrous finale, she had throttled an innocent bayleaf . . . the odd woman who came up to her then . . . who made her some kind of magical herbal concoction . . . Ivy had experienced a phenomenal boost in her powers that day; that witch's brew enhanced her abilities enough to order ancient trees into battle. She never got the opportunity to test what other enhancements it might have made to her other powers . . . it would be worth finding out. If her more _persuasive_ abilities could be enhanced sufficiently, then she could keep Cobblepot mesmerized for days at a time!

After several minutes of trying to remember the exact herbs the woman had sold her, however, Ivy could only come up with chamomile, and she suspected that had been for its calming properties. It was maddening to think that this woman knew things about plants and herbs that she did not! Still, if she was going to do this, then Ivy needed the herbalist, and that meant a return to Robinson Park. Perhaps she still had the bag or the receipt.

That also meant leaving the Iceberg, which Ivy had been wary of doing. If she left the Penguin alone and someone found him in the state he was in, her plans would be undone before she'd even begun. She'd told the Penguin to send his staff away when they came to inquire about the Iceberg reopening, but someone might come back. Maybe even Sly, who had disappointed her so when he threatened her with expulsion, and then ministered to Roxy Rocket tenderly. She was of half a mind to have Oswald fire him!

But Ivy couldn't stay there forever, even if Sly had turned back into a pumpkin the other night. She was also eager to return to her green, if only for an hour or so.

Getting up from Oswald's desk, she left his office and checked the dining area. He was still seated in a chair next to her special booth. He'd spent two hours dusting and polishing the wood before fetching a bottle of champagne. Every few hours she'd heard the sound of the ice in the bucket being replaced. Certainly she would never be caught doing THAT kind of work once she was firmly in control of the Penguin and all his assets, including the Lounge.

"Oh, Ozzy?" she asked. "Care to do me a favor?"

"Kwakka, I would consider it a privilege, my dear," he said suavely.

"That's just _darling_, Ozzy. I need to run out and do a few errands - " She held up a hand, for he was about to speak again. "I know what you're going to offer, but this is something I have to do myself. But, if it makes you feel better, once I'm finished I may have a way you can stay with me for a very, _very_ long time."

He put a hand to his chest. "My dear, my heart feels like an eagle, or a falcon, or some other soaring bird quite unlike the flightless one you see before you."

Ivy covered a frown with her hand. She was going to have to work on him cutting down on all the bird metaphors. "Anyway," she said, "perhaps you could take that bottle up to your office and wait for me? And if anybody other than me comes in, just lock the door and don't make a noise. After all, I want us to have some alone time when I get back."

The bottle was in his hand in an instant, dripping cold water onto the floor. "I shall be waiting for you with bated breath," Penguin promised.

"You do that," she said.

Once Ivy arrived back at Robinson Park, part of her wanted to spend hours among her beloved trees and bushes, but she forced herself to remember that it would take just one person to find Penguin, notify the police, and uproot her scheme before it could bloom. She took five minutes to reassure her babies that yes, she wasn't going away forever. Once the greenery had settled down, a quick search turned up the plastic bag that had contained the herbs, and the tiny typed label glued to the back told her she would find the mysterious woman at The Curiosity Shop, 16th and Lexington.

* * *

"Are you sure there isn't something you'd like to discuss, Mr. Dent?" Dr. Leland Bartholomew asked one last time.

The scarred criminal didn't even shake his head. He merely sat in his chair, ramrod straight. Dr. Bartholomew noted, however, that his lips seemed to be pressed together quite tightly. Obviously he DID wish to talk about something, but the coin had come up scarred, and that meant Two-Face would not speak for the entire hour of their therapy session.

Of course Dr. Bartholomew knew exactly what Dent wished to discuss. It had come up in virtually every session the doctor had held since the night the Joker was murdered by a mob of armed men at the Iceberg Lounge. No one, not even his fellow Rogues, appeared to have the slightest interest in mourning his passing. Instead they endlessly talked about the impact his death would have on the underworld, about the mysterious circumstances surrounding his murder, and most of all about how much nicer life would be without the psychopathic clown around.

Dr. Bartholomew piously believed that he was the only sane person in Gotham who could muster one iota of regret over the Joker's death. Granted, yes, he had been a homicidal lunatic with multiple murders on his record. He had never shown the slightest bit of improvement despite years of therapy and medication, except for those times he was shamming. And their one-on-one sessions had always been somewhat - taxing.

Still, the Joker would never be cured now. As long as he'd been alive and under doctor's care, there was always the HOPE, slim as it might be, that he could get better. To write the Joker off would mean writing off twenty other patients who seemed equally "untreatable", and then you might as well send them off to Blackgate.

That being said, Dr. Bartholomew recognized that his daily schedule WAS a bit easier now that the Joker would no longer be occupying his time.

Since Dent was obviously not going to speak, the doctor used their time to think over some matters relating to the Joker's death, specifically what to do with Harley Quinn. She'd been kept segregated from the other patients since her arrival. Even though the Joker had ended their relationship some time ago, Ms. Quinzell's obsession had not abated, and without heavy sedation she would probably be crying hysterically even now.

Harley Quinn had always been a cause of some discomfort among the Arkham staff. By no stretch of the imagination could she be considered their most violent or dangerous patient, and yet she was in one very important way the scariest. Quinn had once been Dr. Harleen Quinzell, a psychologist, one of them. And now look at her. If it could happen to her, then couldn't it happen to any one of them?

Now, however, Dr. Bartholomew would have to be insane himself not to see the opportunity presented him. Harley's treatment had never moved past the obvious first step - break her obsession with Joker. Part of the problem had always been his constant presence. It was quite hard when half the time the very object of her affections was confined to Arkham with her. But now he was out of her life for good. Eventually Harley would see that she had to move on, and her treatment could FINALLY start to go forward.

Of course Harley - Harleen, he corrected himself. Harley Quinn was an identity she was meant to discard one day. Her real name was Harleen Quinzell, and he made himself a note never to refer to her as "Harley Quinn" in their conversations or his reports. Anyway, Harleen would undoubtedly be a difficult patient at first. Even after she'd moved past her grief, she would be in serious denial over the years she'd wasted on the deranged clown. But Dr. Bartholomew was feeling more confident than ever that Harleen could be made to remember. For the moment Harleen might believe that her life was over, but now she had a real chance to remember that she was once an independent woman, that she had lived much of her adult life without the Joker, and that she could do so again.

This would dovetail nicely with his current scheduling problem, he realized. Dr. Bartholomew liked his first appointment of the morning to go relatively smoothly. For that reason he'd begun seeing Roxy Rocket first whenever she was a patient. While she had a serious problem with her thrill addiction, she was also relatively manageable. She'd been released from Arkham recently, however, and his mornings had grown more erratic.

And based on reports he'd received from the police department, Miss Rocket would not be receiving his care for some time yet. Apparently she had been severely beaten by Poison Ivy in a barroom brawl, and her injuries were too serious to permit her transfer to Arkham.

Harleen would not normally be a good alternative, and her current condition would only make things worse. But he felt positively inspired by the new developments in Harleen's treatment. And inspiration could be hard to come by in this asylum. Surely he could handle some histrionics in the name of affecting an actual cure of one of Gotham's most notorious lunatics?

"Excuse me, Mr. Dent," Dr. Bartholomew said as he stood up, not that he was interrupting anything. He went to the office door and opened it, leaning out. "Miss Vicens?"

"Yes, doctor?" his secretary asked.

"Pencil in Harleen Quinzell for my first appointment of the day for the remainder of her stay here," he told her. He paused. "And make sure the staff knows not to refer to her as 'Harley' any longer. From now on I wish for her to be called by her real name."

"Of course, doctor," she replied. "Should I schedule a session for tomorrow morning?"

"Er, no," Dr. Bartholomew said. "I'll monitor her status and let you know, thank you."

He closed the door and returned to his seat. Dent remained as silent as ever.

The doctor looked at the clock. There were still forty minutes left in the session.

Yes, feelings of inspiration could be SO hard to come by.

To be continued . . .


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"We've got a problem," Gina told Raven.

The Iceberg Lounge hostess looked at the washroom attendant. "A regular problem, or a Gotham problem?" she asked. A mess to clean up in the men's room was a regular problem; Killer Croc passed out face-first in a toilet was a Gotham problem.

"The first one," Gina said. "That was Sly on the phone. He's not coming in tonight."

"And you're telling me this because? Tell Mr. Cobblepot."

"I did!" Gina protested.

"So?"

"He didn't say anything."

"At all?"

"I don't think he even knew I was THERE," Gina said. "You know how he's been today."

Raven did know. They were getting ready to reopen the Iceberg after being closed for three days due to the Joker murder. Raven had been fortunate that night. She'd ducked down behind the bar just as the first killing blow landed. While she was in perfect agreement with the other staff that an Iceberg without the Joker was a safer Iceberg, that didn't mean she particularly wanted the image of a man being cut to pieces fixed in her memories.

At any rate, it was expected that the first night, and several more nights to come, would be packed with people wanting to see the murder scene and hear the stories (Raven suspected her tale of hiding behind the bar with Ted and Jai from FAB! would not be much sought-after)so the pressure of reopening after an extended period was even greater, and everyone was feeling the stress.

Everyone, that is, except the Penguin.

"Just kept looking at that pocket watch," Gina added. "When the hell did he pick THAT up, anyway?"

"Sometime in the last three days, I guess," Raven said absently. "Do you think he's still – "

"I've seen enough drunks in this place to recognize one when I see one," Gina said, confirming Raven's own impression. "He's sober, thank God. It's just like he's in another WORLD."

It was common knowledge among the staff that the Penguin's drinking had become a problem, and that Sly had temporarily taken over running the Iceberg. If Cobblepot was just distracted and not tipsy, then Sly calling out sick only meant finding another bartender for the night. But if they were wrong and their boss was drinking again, then the Lounge would be left rudderless at the worst possible time.

"Come on," Raven said. "We'll tell him again, and this time we make sure he's listening. At least then we'll know what's going on with him."

They found the Penguin not in his office as was customary in the hours before opening, but sitting in one of the booths. "Mr. Cobblepot?" Raven asked hesitantly.

No answer. He appeared to be contemplating a spot above his head.

"Mr. Cobblepot?" Raven asked once more, daring to shake him by the shoulder a little.

"Kwakka," he said, starting a little. "What what, Raven?"

"Sly called, Mr. Cobblepot," Raven said. She wasn't sure what to make of his behavior. He didn't smell of alcohol and his speech wasn't slurred, but his eyes were a bit glassy. For a crazy second she wondered if he was stoned. "He can't come in tonight."

"Ah," Penguin replied. He tapped his fingers on the table for a moment before shrugging as if this was the most inconsequential bit of news in the world. "Thank you, Raven," he said. He pulled out a small golden circle from his pocket and snapped it open, glancing at it briefly before putting it back.

Raven scratched her head. "Er, you're welcome, sir," she said.

"I told you," Gina said after they left. "What do we do?"

"Call one of the other bartenders and pretend everything's normal," Raven said. "What do you WANT me to do? A few days ago he was waving a machine gun shaped like an umbrella at us."

"I wish Sly was here," Gina sighed.

"The most high-profile criminal in the city was murdered in Penguin's club on national television on his watch," Raven pointed out. "If I was him, I'd take a vacation day too."

Behind them, Penguin took another look at the newspaper photo he'd clipped and placed inside the old brass pocket watch he'd found. It was a color shot of the woman of his dreams, the goddess he'd overlooked all these years – and she'd been a customer, right under his nose the whole time like a thrush or a titmouse!

Penguin lapsed back into several minutes of uninterrupted reverie at this point, as the word "titmouse" caused his thoughts to turn to another of Poison Ivy's limitless fine qualities.

* * *

"Honey, I'm home," Dick said just a little too casually as he climbed through the window. He'd cut his patrol short again in order to get home early, and hoped Barbara wouldn't notice.

Evidently she didn't, for he arrived just in time to see his wife fling her glasses onto the desk in frustration.

"Not quite the reaction I was looking for," he added.

"Sorry," Barbara said. "I just spent a fruitless hour looking for something."

"The remote?" Dick joked lightly, removing his mask and gloves.

"Ha ha. No, actually the original FAB! footage from the Joker homicide," she told him.

Dick frowned. This was largely the reason he'd been coming home early. Joker's murder _was_ a big event in terms of Gotham crimefighting, it was understandable and necessary that Oracle be working with it . . . but he couldn't help being uneasy.

"Why do you need it?" he asked her. "We already have the video feeds you captured. Besides, aren't we all in agreement on what happened?"

"Knowing what happened, and giving the police something they can use in court, are two very different things," she pointed out. "Yes, I have the feeds, but we don't have audio thanks to Penguin and his damn anti-bugging precautions all over the Iceberg. Maybe if we could HEAR as well as see what's going on, we could have some hard evidence instead of theory and conjecture."

"In other words, Bruce has been bugging you for this."

"No, it's not Bruce," Barbara sighed. "It was my idea to start digging. I couldn't understand why the producers hadn't turned their footage over to the police yet. Heck, the Ivy/Roxy catfight alone should have been leaked to the Internet by now, but so far there's been nothing. I had to know why."

"Do you?"

She nodded. "According to internal emails I was reading, every camera in the Iceberg became infested with some kind of black, downy mold. All their footage was destroyed."

"Mold," Dick said. "So Ivy covered her tracks."

"And her friend's tracks."

Dick looked skeptical. "Somehow I'm thinking protecting Harley Quinn was a side benefit to covering her own leafy ass."

Barbara chuckled. Then she sighed and put her glasses back on. "Still, I hate to waste a whole hour, with still no resolution on the case in sight. Fortunately Batman and the others didn't need much OraCom support tonight. Seems like the city's pretty quiet. You're home early again too. Must be a reaction."

"Yeah, must be," Dick said cautiously.

Every man who had plunged his sword into the Joker's body was going away to Blackgate for a very long time. And one of these days Poison Ivy would be going back to Arkham. If not for this, then for something else. So from Dick's perspective, the case was going to be resolved. It didn't really _need_ the kind of time and energy Barbara was giving it.

Dick was all too aware of another factor, though – Bruce's interest was seeing justice done. Of that Dick had no doubt. It was the death of an enemy, just like it was for Dick. It was the death of the fiend who killed Jason, just like it was for Dick. But for Barbara . . . He looked at her, still in her wheelchair like she'd be for the rest of her life, and thought about how the connection she had to the Joker was personal, personal in a way Dick or Bruce could never really understand.

He wasn't accusing Barbara of taking some vindictive satisfaction in the Joker's death, or having a bloodthirsty need to relive the Joker's death in her ears as well as her eyes. She'd dealt with her shooting a long time ago. Still, the fact remained that the monster who put her in that wheelchair had died, ironically, as a crime victim. And Barbara had to reconcile whatever pleasure she took in his death with . . .

That's what Dick had been doing, after all.

Certainly he had more than his own fair share of emotional baggage when it came to the Joker. The psychopath _was_ responsible for Barbara's paralysis, and even if he didn't feel that the same way she did, he still felt it. The psychopath was also responsible for the death of Jason Todd, and the pain both events had caused Bruce. For that reason, the first thing Dick had done the morning after Joker's murder was drive to Wayne Manor, then go straight to Jason's costume in the Batcave - and he'd found Alfred already there, dusting the case as if it hadn't been cleaned in a year and not just the day before.

"I was so angry at Bruce, Alfred," Dick had said that morning. "He benched me, plain and simple, when I got shot by the Joker. He decided a trained, capable, mature partner is too much of a liability, and then turned right around and took on that green, reckless kid. I was so fucking angry, I turned my back on the both of them. And I will never 'til my dying day know what that did to Jason. If I hadn't... If I had _been_ there..."

"If I had been there," he repeated quietly in the present.

"If you'd been there you would have been greened like every other man in the room," Barbara pointed out, misinterpreting his words.

"Yeah," Dick said, not bothering to explain. "Babs, I was thinking, the city is quiet now. Maybe, take some time, go someplace new."

"You mean like a vacation?"

Dick's mind rolodexed through possibilities other than 'vacation': moving back to Bludhaven, relocating to Metropolis, taking her to a remote cave somewhere on the coast of Greece with no phones or satellite or Internet, cut off from the world of killer clowns killed in turn by crazed assassins . . .

Then he realized he was reacting irrationally, as much as Bruce, as much as Barbara . . . maybe more.

"Yeah, vacation," Dick said at last. "I think we all need one, don't you?"

Barbara looked at him, concerned. "Want to talk about it, sweetie?"

"He's done so much . . . to all of us," he managed, struggling for the thought. "This . . . brings it all back. Don't tell me you haven't been thinking about it."

"You mean the shooting," she said frankly. "Of course. I spent so many nights dreaming of his getting hacked up, shot, burned at the stake, lowered into a vat of acid, castrated, hanged, electrocuted and gassed with his own grin gas. Every time I see that tape, I remember those nights."

"Here I thought maybe you . . . enjoyed it. Seeing it happen that way."

She shook her head silently.

"I think it's a better world without him in it," she said simply. "But if I never have to see that tape or hear that name again, that'd be just fine with me."

Dick nodded. "That just leaves one question," he said, managing a lighter tone. "Venice or Naples?"

* * *

"Victor. Jervis," Harvey said as he took a seat.

"Dent," Victor Fries replied.

"Hmph," Jervis muttered.

"Look, for the last time, we're not looking for a sidekick," Harvey said, exasperated. "And even if we were, we wouldn't be looking for HER."

"As if you'd admit it!" Jervis said hotly.

Mr. Freeze looked from the one man to the other. For some reason, the Mad Hatter had gotten it into his head that Two-Face wanted Harley Quinn to be his new sidekick. Something about jam tomorrow – one could never be sure when Jervis began spouting Lewis Carroll.

One thing that WAS fact and not paranoid delusion was that Jervis himself wanted Harley for a sidekick. This was the cause for Hatter's unrelenting antagonism toward Dent ever since he'd been admitted.

"Haven't even spoken to Quinn in days. She isn't exactly the chatterbox these days," Dent added.

"I concur," Victor said. "I have not witnessed Harvey speaking to Ms. Quinn in days. And even if he DID wish to obtain her services, I should think you would have an advantage in that you checked yourself in voluntarily in order to see her. Harvey just happened to be here when she was brought in."

"Yeah, it was Fate," Harvey said, grinning at Jervis.

"Did you hear that, Victor? Do you see now? Everyone knows his actions are governed by fate. The subtle bandersnatch, he's admitting to the scheme!"

Victor sighed.

Harvey hadn't stopped grinning, however. "You know, now that you mention it," he said, "maybe we will have a little chat with Harley. The girl looks like she could use it."

"I hardly think she wishes companionship at this time," Victor protested to Harvey. "Regardless of how the Joker treated her, she DID love him in her own way, and she has been grieving ever since. I know that when my beloved Nora died, it was some time before I wished to speak to anyone."

Victor turned his head to look at Jervis and say something more, but he realized that the Mad Hatter had already begun making his way over to where Harley sat quietly. "And you weren't listening to a word I said," Victor muttered. "Was it quite necessary for you to provoke him like that?"

"Didn't need to flip a coin, if that's what you mean. Maybe Tetch'll have himself a new henchwench today. Or maybe we'll just have a good laugh. Fifty-fifty."

Victor groaned. "This can't end well," he said.

Harley Quinn, meanwhile, was completely ignorant of her surroundings, much less the three men's interest in her. She sat in a stupor that was partly due to the sedatives they'd placed her on, and partly due to her belief that thinking about nothing in particular was better than thinking about . . .

Whoops. She'd thought about it. And a tear spilled out of her eye.

"Harley? Is everything all right, child?"

Harley looked up dully. "Oh, hi, Jervis," she said. "No, everything isn't all right. I'd settle for something being right, actually."

Jervis sat next to her. "I'm sorry to hear that," he replied. "Is there anything you'd like to talk about?"

"Talk?" she screeched. "All the doctors want me to do is _talk_." She chuckled strangely. "Talkaboutit talkaboutit talkaboutit talkaboutit. Talk talk talk talk talkie talktalktalktalktalk."

Jervis bit his lip thoughtfully. He had a healthy appreciation for nonsense, naturally. Harley's ability to understand nonsense and spout it back in return was part of what made her so suitable. Still, there was something not quite... right in the way she was sitting there, twirling her hair chanting "Crazy Glue, Mistah J said not to ever run out of Crazy Glue. And get some Fruit Loops and HoHos while you're out. Couple sack of White Castles too. Not Krystal, Krystal cleans the grill . . ."

"Harleen," he began again more formally.

"Harleen," she parroted back. "'Harleen, Talk about it.' You sound just like the doctors, Jervis."

He managed not to be offended by this. "I apologize," he told her. "I just - "

"Yesterday some doc started asking me all these questions about Mistah J," Harley went on. "Thought he was tryin' to get into my head, and it turned out he wanted to get into Puddin's. Something about a case study. Not even gone a week, and already all the bloodsuckers are coming out to make money off his memory! Next thing ya know, they'll be auctioning all the stuff I gave away for a fortune!" She looked down at her hands. "I wish I still had something of his," she added softly.

Jervis hesitated. He'd been goaded into this. He really should just pat her on the hand and . . .

He looked across the room at Harvey. Not only was Dent not paying attention to them, but he'd even turned his back.

The Hatter felt his blood boil. So he was so confident of victory that he didn't even need to watch? Well, it wouldn't be HARVEY picking Harley up when she was at her lowest! No, it would be HE who would lift her up like a tea-tray in the sky.

"Harley," he said confidently, "perhaps you'd rather I handle talking?"

"Sure," Harley mumbled. Jervis did like to ramble on. Calloo callay, and he'd be off again.

"It's about a matter that, frankly, I would have raised weeks ago, but there were certain obstacles which - well, let's just say they are no longer present. On the mortal coil, that is." He paused. That had sounded almost like he was taking pleasure in the Joker's death. Which was true, of course, but Harley didn't need to know that! "That is to say . . . life, as you know all too well, my dear, is short. Uncertain. Frightening. Perhaps we are doing nothing more than living the Red King's nightmare. But isn't it easier to bear when you are two, not one?"

Harley's face didn't betray much emotion in her current medicated state, but Jervis could detect a hint of something he saw frequently in others when he spoke, a kind of resigned bewilderment. Obviously a direct approach was necessary. "Harley, I'm sure you don't like to think about it, but you have been on your own ever since the Joker ended your relationship, and now that he is gone forever, you simply must move on and find a new place for yourself. And I think you'll agree with me when I say that the two of us would make an excellent pair. You are truly a female Knave . . . of . . . Hearts?"

As he spoke, he was gratified to note that the look of befuddlement vanished from her eyes. He slowly realized, however, that it had been replaced by a look of horror.

Which could hardly be considered an improvement.

"I'm going to be alone," she said. "He'll be dead, I'll be alive, and that's how it's going to be for the rest of my life."

"But you don't HAVE to be alone!" Jervis remonstrated as he took her hand. "We all knew you were afraid you'd be alone after the breakup, but believe me, nobody would prefer the Joker over you unless they had a gun to their head! Which, admittedly, they often did."

"I'm going to FEEL like this forever," Harley said, and she yanked her hand from his grip. "And you just had to point that out, didn't you?"

Jervis swallowed. Had he called her Knave? Oh no, this was a Queen of Hearts. Someone who looked ready to cry "Off with his head!". "Maybe another time when you're ready," he said nervously. "The time has come to talk of other things!"

"You really are mad, aren't you?" she growled. She actually growled at him.

"We're all mad here," Jervis replied, unable to help himself.

"Yeah, and there's only one way to stop a mad watch."

He would have explained that this line wasn't actually in the book - damn that Walt Disney and his bastardization - but it was here that she tackled him and began methodically pounding his head into the floor.

Victor glared at Harvey as orderlies rushed into the common room to separate them.

"Okay, so maybe the odds were a little better than 50/50," Dent said between chortles.

To be continued . . .


	4. Chapter 4

Ivy briefly considered greening the taxi driver. It would save her the fare, and she could be sure he would wait outside Arkham for as long as she liked. She chose not to, however. Considering her luck lately, he'd drive through a stoplight and plow into an eighteen-wheeler.

She ground her teeth as this thought naturally led to the predicament she was in. She should never have kept Cobblepot under her control that first night. Or at least, she should have quit at paper napkins.

Her trip to the Curiosity Shop had yielded the answers she was looking for. "Sacred Glen for attuning to natural elements, and Dragon's Blood Resin and Flax Seed for converting negative energy into increased power and will for invocations," the shopkeeper had told her, sounding almost exactly as she had that day at the Highland Games. When she took her purchases back to the Iceberg and tried them out, Ivy experienced much the same sensation as before - a rush, an added "oomph". Her experiments on what little living plant life there was in the Iceberg proved that her control over plants had grown once again.

At the Games she'd wondered if her new powers would enable her to green Galen McDougal - or rather, the man she THOUGHT was McDougal. At least the real McDougal had an adequate knowledge of mosses. Whoever that other man had been, he had not only resisted her thrall, but been unforgivably rude. Faced with THIS sort of power, however, he might have humbled and prostrated himself before her divine and irresistible beauty, just as a man should. Pity he was no longer available.

But Oswald had been available, and Ivy had felt a definite change in him when she spritzed him. It had seemed like even his powers of speech became dependent on her will alone. She went to bed that night confident that the Penguin would be no less in love with her the following day. And she fell asleep with a smile on her face, imagining the things she could have made the false Scotsman do.

Oh yes, Oswald had remained properly attentive the next day, and every day since. She'd become the center of his universe, and Ivy imagined that his universe was the better for it. Oswald had rambled for quite a while about things like the insignificant Roxy, someone named "Lark Starling" (with a name like that, probably a Penguin groupie, a truly sorry class of individuals), and his good friend alcohol. Whatever he had been before, happy wasn't it.

Now he was happy. And she wasn't.

What she hadn't reckoned on were the side effects of her heightened powers. Of course greened individuals were always a little slower on the draw, having largely lost the ability to think for themselves. Normally, however, they were still able to function provided she gave them direction. Told to run the Iceberg as he normally did, the Penguin should have been fine.

Instead, under the influence of her new, enhanced pheromones, Oswald had remained on his rear end all day AND all night, unwilling to take his eyes off Ivy for more than a few minutes, and apparently unable to take his mind off her at all. Faced with a manager that would barely recognize his customers (or staff), let alone speak to them, the Iceberg had been forced to remain closed that night. Too many things were in need of a guiding hand after three days of nonactivity. Not only that, but the staff was mired in confusion, bewildered by both Oswald's strange behavior and Sly's failure to show up.

At least, that was what the doorman had told **her** after she greened him.

Much to Ivy's dismay, the following day she'd discovered that Cobblepot could only perform the most menial tasks without her telling him to finish twenty times. Managing the Iceberg was simply out of the question for him.

This had left her with three options. She could stop using the special incense and rely on her natural powers. While this would (hopefully) leave Oswald with enough of his faculties to run the Lounge, it would also require her to go back to her old routine of greening him several times each day. She might as well be chained to his side, a notion that repelled her. Or she could walk away and let Oswald slip from her control, allowing him to do what he did best and manage the Iceberg without assistance. The problem with that, of course, was that he had already been under her spell for several days. The Penguin would be MOST upset when he regained his senses, and with the resources she now knew he possessed, he could make her life difficult in more ways than just banning her from his nightclub. Never mind that it was those very same resources that had tempted her to follow this path in the first place!

OR, she could try running the Lounge herself.

Ivy was originally offended by the thought. Her, taking up a trade? Becoming some ordinary businesswoman? Granted, it was all just a front for Penguin's multiple racketeering operations, but she would be _perceived_ in the same way that she had perceived Penguin until recently - a former criminal, semi-retired and running a BAR.

There was also the work involved. Gaia's Goddess did not soil her hands with work unless she was working in the soil with the plants that were under her protection. Gaia's Goddess did not stay up until the middle of the night wearing one of those green visors and reviewing _budgets_ like some common bookkeeper! Some might think her lazy, but really it was just that someone like her was born not to serve, but to be served.

And yet . . . days later, there were invoices waiting to be reviewed on what was temporarily HER desk at the Iceberg. There were also invoices bearing her signature, authorizing payment. That had felt positively unreal, sitting in a BANK with the Penguin while he added her name to the Lounge's bank accounts. It was only afterwards that she realized the impossible had happened.

She was a civilian. True, a civilian who was slowly coming to understand the inner workings of Penguin's (his for now, anyway) criminal empire, and was slowly but surely taking control of it just as Japanese honeysuckle might invade a forest. But still, a civilian – or civilian "look alike", someone who had to maintain the illusion of being a law-abiding taxpayer. There could be no more of her usual schemes, on a royal scale as befitted the Queen and Goddess of all things green. She would have to act subtly, or everything would be taken away from her and she'd have nothing to show for all the triple-damned energy she was putting into this. It felt oddly – diminishing.

All because of her pride and her greed. Too proud to admit defeat, too greedy to resist the lure of Penguin's millions as they drew closer. She sighed. It was almost like something a - man would do.

Also like a man, Ivy was alone. Even now that Oswald didn't need to be spritzed every few hours, she found she couldn't leave for very long anyway. She couldn't go to any of her sanctuaries to refresh herself because there was still too much to be done at the Lounge. And if they didn't reopen soon, she wasn't sure if the establishment could survive. So she was alone. Oswald wasn't much of a conversationalist at this point. Her babies were elsewhere. And the hired help was out of the question.

So that was the only reason she was going to see Harley. It was purely selfish. She was still Gaia's Goddess in all her lovely omnipotence. In the end she got what she desired, and today she desired someone to talk to. It had nothing to do with checking on Harley, who had become a trifle emotional when her worthless ex was killed.

Anyway, by now Harley had to see it was for the best. Who knew? Perhaps Harley had even come to realize what an act of self-liberation her role in Joker's murder was. Ivy had long fantasized about putting his miserable life to an end, but in her most cherished ones, his blood was on Harley's hands just as much as it was on Ivy's. For Harley to be the one who actually gave those DEMON fools the order was both fitting and just, and Ivy knew Harley would eventually understand that.

For now, though, Ivy would settle for a conversation between friends. Visiting Harley had given Ivy an excuse to push work back another day. The only thing that was helping Ivy get anything done at all was her new ideas for the Iceberg. For all the Lounge's charms, the decor had always been too cold and barren for her liking. So if she had to be there every night now, instead of somewhere like Robinson Park . . .

Then it should be a place with a little less icy white, and a lot more lush, tropical green.

* * *

"So sorry to trouble you, Master Bruce," Alfred said.

"What is it, Alfred?" Bruce asked as he worked in the Batcave that afternoon in his costume sans cowl.

"I thought you might like to know that Miss Selina is entertaining several unexpected guests in the study."

"Unexpected guests?" Bruce asked sourly after a moment. That meant at least one of the Rogues. He was more interested in the "several" part.

"Yes, Master Bruce. A Mr. Dent, Mr. Nigma, Mr. Crane, Mr. Blake, and Mr. Wesker."

With a powerful sense of deja vu, Bruce's eyes rose almost unwillingly to look at the monitor on his left.

**.:At Large:.**

Riddler

Two-Face

Scarecrow

Poison Ivy

Scarface

Catman

"No Ivy?"

"No, sir. Ms. Isley was not in attendance."

Bruce changed out of the costume and into casual attire with maximum speed, and maximum annoyance. Even before Selina moved into Wayne Manor, the Rogues had behaved as if her relationship with Bruce meant it was all right to come calling with increasing regularity. But never FIVE at once. The old record had been three. The sheer number - coupled with the presence of Tom Blake, who despised her completely, suggested there was an emergency.

As he approached the closed doors of the study, he took a moment to channel his worry and irritation into the befuddlement Bruce Wayne would naturally feel at finding so many criminals at once.

"Bruce!"

The befuddled look became completely sincere as he entered the study and received the kind of greeting a regular patron might get upon entering his favorite bar. There was nothing more surreal than having Jonathan Crane, seated in your father's armchair with his legs crossed, treat you like an old college buddy.

"Get off your duff, Dummy!" Scarface barked at Arnold Wesker, who was also seated. "We ain't never geen properly introduced, Grucie and me." He looked at Bruce. "I'm surprised, Gruce. Two respectagle men like us, not meeting in polite society gefore."

Bruce had been mistaken. While Scarecrow's behavior was certainly strange, it was nowhere near as surreal as having Scarface stretch out his little wooden hand, obviously expecting him to shake it. Bruce looked down at it thoughtfully then shot Selina an appalled glance.

Selina, who had observed all of this with weary bemusement, gestured for him to humor the insane ventriloquist.

Bruce reached out and shook the little wooden hand briefly, feeling not a little ridiculous.

"Woo, quite a grip you got there, Gruce!" Scarface said, waving his hand theatrically. "Can I call yous Gruce?"

"Selina?" Bruce asked plaintively. "What's going on?"

"We were just getting to that," Selina said with the gamely smile often assumed dealing with rogues en masse. "Gentlemen – and Blake, what is it you want from me?"

"Bruce," Harvey said quietly, putting an arm around Bruce's shoulders and steering him subtly away from the others. "We're sorry about the dummy," he murmured. "The first time listening to Wesker is always the toughest."

"Yes, I can see that," Bruce replied, remembering full well his reaction the first time he'd encountered Scarface as Batman.

"Look, we've got something of a disaster in the making here. Actually, it concerns you too, so you should stick around."

"Is it serious?" Bruce asked. His strategists mind was already cataloging the countless possibilities, and tentatively proposing responses for each. A Rogue "disaster" could be anything from a police crackdown to - Aunt Gladys. The one thing he was confident it WASN'T was Joker-related.

"Bruce, Blake is in the same room as Selina. We'd say it's pretty serious."

"Here," Eddie said as he joined them, shoving a green rectangle of paper into Bruce's hands. The three of them were now practically huddled in one corner of the study like a group of conspirators. "Read this."

Bruce did so, albeit with trepidation. As Bruce, he wondered how the contents of a single piece of paper could have these hardened criminals running to Selina. Below the surface, meanwhile, Batman immediately noted the shade of green. There was no question mark, but considering the identity of the person handing it to him, it was quite possibly a riddle. He hesitated for the briefest of moments, regretting that he wasn't wearing his gloves, but then he realized that Nigma was himself barehanded. That meant there couldn't be any sort of transdermal coating for transmitting drugs or toxins.

And as it turned out, it wasn't a riddle after all. It was actually a flyer. While vague on details, the important fact was that it claimed the Iceberg Lounge was reopening "under new management", rechristened as the "Toxicodendron Rydbergii" Lounge.

"It's another name for poison ivy," Harvey explained. "We looked it up."

Bruce was as familiar with the various scientific names for poison ivy as he was with the Rogues' various nicknames for "Queen Chlorophyll". "Where did you get this?" he asked, his voice deepening slightly. Ivy's absence was suddenly making more sense, as was her mysterious disappearance since the Joker's murder.

"I went to the Iceberg to ask Oswald why it was taking them so long to reopen," Eddie said. "Some guy in construction overalls got me before I was three steps in and told me to leave. There was a stack of those flyers by the door, and I grabbed a copy."

"Excuse me, boys," Selina said, joining their little circle. "I need to pull Bruce away for a minute."

Before anyone, including Bruce, could protest, Selina had him by the elbow and forcibly dragged him out of the study. As he left, he caught a glimpse of Blake making a snide face and cracking an invisible whip. Eddie, who had drifted back toward the others, smacked him across the shoulder.

Bruce made a mental note to himself. Next time Blake would go down a little harder than usual.

"Thanks for leaving me alone with the others, by the way," she told him once they were far enough away from the study doors. "Wesker, Scarface and Blake, not exactly my idea of a bridge foursome."

"Why did they come anyway?" Bruce demanded. "Harvey or Nigma I can see, but the others don't even like you!"

"Apparently Crane and Blake wanted in because they see this as affecting them as much as anybody else," Selina said. "Wesker, well, I think he just wanted to come here as a guest. All the other Rogues get to."

"Sure, why not him too?" Bruce muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Why did you have to pull me out of there? This is important. I just came from closing the file on the Joker's murder, the most responsible party is the one who's going to get away with it, and a Rogues' committee is finally giving me a lead on her whereabouts!"

Selina blinked. There were times she really had to stop and marvel at how even Bruce could fall victim to the breathtaking myopia of the crimefighter mindset and completely miss the obvious.

"I pulled you out because I can't exactly talk to _Batman_ when I'm in the room with _those guys_," she said, exasperated. "Never mind the fact that I love Harvey and Eddie dearly, but when you put them in a room with the rest of them, there's a critical mass. They just drive me nuts."

"Okay, fine," Bruce said in his Bat-gravel. "Why did they come to you with this, anyway?"

"Isn't it obvious?" She took a step back and spread her arms, twisting her body left and right. "Someone's got to talk to Ivy, and it can't be a man."

Bruce's expression became thoughtful. "And you're the only woman in Gotham with the stature to make Ivy back down from this scheme."

"Well, I think they were counting more on my claws than my stature," Selina said, smiling a little.

"Are you going to do it?" Bruce asked.

"If it gets them out of the house, yes," Selina replied. Then she sighed. "I'll go see her, although I haven't any idea what I might say. It's nice that those guys fear the claws, but really, Pammy isn't the type you can reason with that way. For that matter, she can't be reasoned with any other way that I know of. You can't tell her something she doesn't want to hear."

Bruce said nothing – none of this was news to him. He would never say so to Selina, but trying to intimidate Poison Ivy was very much like trying to intimidate Catwoman. It practically guaranteed that either woman would go ahead with whatever it was you tried to talk them out of. They would do it with twice as much vigor as before, and with a So-There grin aimed in your direction.

Selina bit her lip thoughtfully.

"But if Ivy is really going through with this," she resumed, "that means she must have kept Oswald under her thumb all this time, since the night of Joker's . . . and she must be planning to _keep_ him that way for a long, long time. Much as I hate coming down on the side of what's right and wrong, he certainly doesn't deserve _that_."

"You're right," Bruce agreed, "but we need to understand WHY she's doing this. It's insane - "

"Like Pammy."

"No, not like Ivy at all. Not the usual 'kill all the people so plants can rule' insane. It's insane because it's the complete opposite of Ivy. Can you think of _anybody_ less qualified to run a nightclub? Anybody with worse people skills, or a worse grasp of the idea of customer service?" he asked.

Selina frowned. "Well, one, but he recently passed away."

"Ivy likes things to be handed to her, and _nothing_ about running the Iceberg will be easy. It's possible this is part of a new scheme of hers. A plan to poison her customers, perhaps."

"I think you're highballing the number of people out there willing to enter a bar owned by Poison Ivy, much less drink something served by her."

"Yes, which brings us to something Harvey was right about, this DOES concern me," Bruce admitted, "but not in the way he thinks. The Iceberg makes Batman's job a little easier, the way it draws criminals like moths, makes it easier to track their movements. If Ivy runs that place into the ground, the criminal element will go back to frequenting a hundred different establishments . . . PLUS there's always a possibility that this could give me the break I need to prove Ivy's role in the Joker's murder."

He looked at her. "You haven't said if you're definitely going to do this – and I'm going to look into this whether you say yes or not, but . . ." He paused again, glanced at the door to the study and back at Selina. "I'm asking for your help on this."

Selina chuckled. "So let me get this straight, Dark Knight. You are in agreement with Two-Face, Riddler, Scarface, and Catman. You and half the Arkham east wing are all on the same page. You and the most notorious criminals left in Gotham are all trying to hire my services?"

Bruce didn't respond to that, as she knew he wouldn't.

"All right, you talked me into it. Not Eddie, not that despicable Catman, YOU."

"Thank you. I'd appreciate it if you gave me a little time before you choke some sense into Ivy."

"I was going to track down Sly first anyway. He'd know more about what's going on then anyone else."

"Excuse me, Master Bruce? Miss Selina?"

Bruce and Selina turned to see Alfred standing there. "Yes, Alfred?" Bruce asked.

"I regret to inform you that Misters Nigma and Blake are wrestling on the floor of the study. One would not wish to open oneself up to charges of eavesdropping, however one did overhear words to the effect that Mister Blake expressed an intent to scratch the furniture. Shall I do something about it, Sir, or - "

"No, no, let me," Selina growled. "It'll be my pleasure."

* * *

Ivy narrowed her eyes. "Visiting hours aren't over yet," she said.

"I'm sorry, Ms. Isley," the woman at the front desk said, "but you can't see Ms. Quinn. Doctor's orders expressly state you're not allowed." Poison Ivy's name had in fact been written on the "Do Not Admit" list in red capital letters and circled several times by Dr. Bartholomew himself. He'd also stipulated that, for the time being, only female orderlies and nurses would be dealing with visitors.

Ivy was not in the mood to let some fool man to keep her from seeing her friend. She considered slipping the nurse a fifty, since she was well acquainted with the low salaries Arkham staffers received, but she'd already paid the taxi driver. What was the point of having increased powers if you couldn't use them?

"All right then," Ivy said. "What about Eddie Nigma? Is he in?"

"Mr. Nigma is not currently - "

"Jonathan Crane."

"No, I'm afraid - "

She couldn't bring herself to ask for Harvey. "Victor Fries?"

"Er, yes, he is a patient at - "

"I wish to see Victor Fries."

The nurse could guess at what she was doing, but there were no rules stating that Poison Ivy couldn't see _anybody_ at Arkham. And a female orderly would take her to see Mr. Freeze, so it should be all right. "All right then," she said. "I'll have someone take you to a room."

Ivy smiled, and when another woman arrived to take her inside, her smile turned into a sneer. They thought they were so clever here.

The orderly left her in one of the visitor's rooms and then went to get Victor. Of course Ivy had no intention of talking to Fries for even a moment. It was too depressing. She simply exited the room again, found the nearest male doctor, and _persuaded_ him take her to Harley's room.

Ivy's first surprise was finding Harley in one of the padded rooms they used for patients who were a possible danger to themselves. She'd been there for over a week. Surely this wasn't necessary.

The second surprise came when Harley saw her and jumped. Not the happy kind, but the kind you made when you got a scare. Of course, her arrival had been quite unexpected.

"H-heya, Red," Harley said timidly.

"Harley," Ivy replied. "It's been too long. How are you? You look terrible. It's the food and the lighting here, isn't it? You need more sun."

"It's not so bad," Harley mumbled as Ivy sat next to her. "How're you?"

Ivy smiled. It had been too long since someone had asked her that, and where she could give an honest answer. "Well, I'll tell you this, and you're the first to know. I've taken over the Iceberg Lounge."

Harley blinked. "You what?"

"Well, of course you remember how I greened everyone the night - "

"Yes," Harley said all too quickly.

Ivy realized that probably hadn't been the best thing to bring up. "Er, right. After I did some investigation, I discovered that Oswald has quite the criminal organization in place. I mean, really, who knew? I thought he was retired like everyone else!"

"Uh-huh."

"So he's been greened all this time, and I'm going to keep him that way," Ivy explained, feeling a bit more cheerful now. At times it was easy to forget that the Penguin, one of the most respected members of Gotham's "old guard", was completely under her thumb. It was really quite gratifying, especially when coupled with the death of the Joker. "That does mean I'll be running the Iceberg as well as the illegal operations from which he gets most of his profits. There will be changes, though. Oh, there are going to be changes, all right."

"That's - nice, Red."

"In fact," Ivy said, bringing up something she'd thought of on the way, "I was thinking that as soon as you're out of here, you can come by the Lounge, we'll have a girl's day together and get you all freshened up, and then maybe you can come and help me run the place?"

"W-what?"

Ivy wasn't used to doing all the talking - normally Harley chattered enough for three people - but they must have had her sedated. "Well, it would be really nice if I had someone there who I could talk to, maybe someone who can talk to customers better than I. And you're, how to put this delicately - "

"Out of a sidekick job? For good?" Harley asked.

"Well, for good, yes."

Harley barked a short, nervous laugh. "Unless of course I come and be your sidekick, right Red! Unless I come be your sidekick. First Jervis, now you. Jervis Ivy, Ivy Jervis. Jervisivy."

Ivy looked at her uneasily. "What about Jervis, Harley? What about him?"

"He asked me to be his new sidekick."

"He what!" Ivy burst out. How dare he move in on Harley before she -

"And now you want to give me a job," Harley went on. She tittered. "Everybody's thinking about my future."

"Harley - "

"Well, good! You can think about my future, because I don't wanna!" Harley snarled at her.

"Oh for Gaia's sake!" Ivy burst out, her patience completely used up. "This is about HIM, isn't it? You're _still_ grieving over that filthy man, aren't you! It's been almost two weeks!"

"Don't talk about Puddin' that way!" Harley screamed. "And it hasn't been almost two weeks, it's been twelve days, fourteen hours, and, and . . . and I'd know the rest if I knew what the time was!"

"He's dead and you're not, Harley," Ivy retorted. "It's time you thought about living again. He was a waste of your life when he was alive. Don't let him waste the rest of it!"

"My time with Mistah J was the best years of my life!" Harley whined. "What good is the rest of it gonna be?"

"Have you already forgotten that he had already _broken up_ with you before he died?" Ivy said, infuriated. How dare she not be over him yet! "You were angry with him that night! You even gave the command for them to - "

Ivy froze. Harley's eyes had become entirely too round. Her mouth opened and closed like a fish, but no sound was coming out. She started shaking her head left and right.

"Harley - "

"No. Nonononono," Harley moaned. "No, it wasn't me, wasn't me, wasn't me. I didn't do it, dindoit, dindoit. Because I loved Puddin' and he loved me and I would never and he was my world and I would never because that would be like killing me and I never killed him and **_you take that back!_**"

Ivy suddenly understood why Harley was in a room with padded walls. This was not ordinary grief.

Harley scrambled to her feet and backed away. "I didn't, I didn't, I never meant to," she babbled. "I never thought - how could I - not my fault - not my fault - not my fault - oh Red, what am I going to do, I'm the one who should be dead, I'm bad, why isn't it me!" She began slapping at the walls with her hands, trying to find some purchase. When that failed, she resorted to slapping and scratching herself across the face.

"Harley," Ivy said, becoming frightened as she got to her feet, "you stop this, you stop this right now!"

But her friend was beyond talking at this point. She turned and ran into the wall, bouncing off it and falling to the floor. She wailed as she got up and charged the wall again, while Ivy stood transfixed.

The door burst open and two men barreled in. "Aw fuck, who let you in!" one of them growled as he got a look at her face. "Charlie, get Isley the fuck out of here!"

"I didn't - she just - " Ivy said, horrified, as a third man pulled her out. She didn't resist as she watched the first two orderlies struggling to get Harley into a straitjacket.

Charlie slammed the door behind them and looked at her. "This was one of her good days too," he said bitterly.

Ivy thought back to the woman she'd seen when she came in - pallid, unhealthy-looking, miserable. This was a GOOD day?

"Are you going to go, or do we have to get the special team in here to deal with you?" he asked her.

She snapped her head up. "No, I think I'll leave now." Harley obviously wasn't ready to deal with what she did, and Ivy had gone and brought it up anyway because she was angry. She'd been - at fault. Maybe.

Ivy was out of Arkham and in a taxicab within a few minutes. When she got back to the Iceberg, she went to Penguin's office and looked at that mind-numbing stack of papers that really needed to get done. She really didn't want to -

Or she could think about what just happened.

Mind-numbing sounded good.

She sat down and got to work.

To be continued . . .


	5. Chapter 5

Selina looked around at the bare walls of what used to be Sly's apartment. Her first time here, and he was in the process of moving away. "You're sure this is your idea, right?" she asked him as he taped up a large cardboard box. "Pammy didn't put this into your head?"

"Huh?" he asked blankly.

"Ivy," she said. "I've been told that Poison Ivy is the new owner of the Lounge. I thought maybe she decided it wasn't enough just to fire you, that she greened you and told you to leave town."

"Oh," Sly replied. "No, I haven't seen Ivy since the night Joker died. This is all my idea. Actually, it's a good thing you showed up, Ms. Kyle - "

"Please, I think you can call me Selina," she told him.

"Sure thing, M - Selina. Like I said, it's a good thing you're here. I'm moving back to Key West, and I was thinking maybe you could make sure nobody follows me to bring me back here. I appreciated what Mr. Dent did, I really did, but I'm not coming back this time. Now I've got more to keep me there."

While Sly was one of the most normal and likeable people to be found at the Iceberg Lounge, Selina realized she knew much less about him than she did about the Lounge's deranged clientele. She was reminded of the time she investigated Kittlemeier's disappearance, and found herself learning things like where he lived and shopped and ate. "I didn't know you had anything waiting for you there besides the bar, Sly," she said.

"Well, she's not actually there yet. She's coming with me."

"Who - " Selina began to say, but then she remembered what Eddie had told her. Sly had left the Iceberg early that night so he could get Roxy Rocket to a hospital. "Roxy? You're taking her with you?"

He nodded. "She's going to need a lot more time to recover from her injuries, so I figured the sun and the sand would be good for her."

"How is she anyway? Nobody seemed to know - "

"Yeah," Sly said, sighing. "After what happened to the Joker, everyone basically forgot about her. She was pretty bad, Selina. Broken ribs, broken jaw, skull fracture, ruptured spleen . . . Ivy really worked her over." His eyes hardened, and Selina noticed that he no longer referred to Ivy as "Ms. Isley". Somehow she doubted that meant they were on friendly terms. "She's finally getting out of the hospital tonight, so you picked a good time to drop by." He paused. "Why are you here anyway?"

"Looking for a martini prepared the right way," she said dryly. "Actually, I thought you might know what's going on at the Iceberg. It's been closed for days, and lately we've heard some - disturbing news."

"Ivy, you mean."

"So you've heard?"

"Oh, yeah," he said. "Gina and Raven called me. They're upset about it. They still have their jobs and all, but they've seen enough of Ivy to be unhappy about working for her."

"I'm guessing you were let go on account of your Y-chromosome," Selina said.

"You'd think that," he agreed, "but apparently I've made enough Cosmopolitans 'the right way' that I'm forgiven for being a guy. Ivy's left me a couple messages asking when I'll be coming back. I haven't called her back. I'm not going to speak to her ever again, Selina. Not after what she did. She could have killed Roxy, and she would have enjoyed doing it," he said bitterly. "All because I had a conversation with her."

"Sly, Ivy tends to blame men for everything, but I don't see how what happened could be your responsibility."

"I was sitting with Ivy when Roxy came over," Sly said stubbornly. "Roxy got jealous, and she said some things that pushed Ivy over the edge. What she said wasn't called for, but Ivy went too far. If I'd been behind the bar where I belonged, none of it would have happened. Or if I'd spoken up sooner, Roxy wouldn't have been injured so bad."

"Forgive me for pointing this out, Sly," Selina replied, getting him off the subject of blaming himself, "but Roxy has never struck me as the type willing to relax on a beach all day. What happens when she's fully recovered and decides to do something like, I don't know, paraglide into a volcano?"

Sly shook his head. "I don't think that's going to happen. The hospital shrink thinks she might be cured, if you can believe it."

"I never really thought of thrill-seeking as a condition that could be cured," Selina admitted.

"Yeah, well, Roxy said two things about almost being beaten to death by Poison Ivy," he explained. "One was that she'll never find another thrill that comes close to that, and two was that she never WANTS to come close to that again. I don't know how else to say it but that she was 'scared straight'."

"Crane would appreciate that," Selina said, but inwardly she was irritated. Now she was going to have to deal with Pammy after all, although Selina was beginning to feel some added incentive to do something about Ivy. Bruce thought Ivy had gotten away with murder, and maybe he was right, but personally Selina didn't care that Joker was dead or Ivy was responsible. Now, however, it looked like Ivy had also gotten away with almost killing Roxy and for something blown completely out of proportion. And she'd hurt Sly in the bargain. But instead of suffering any kind of consequences for what she'd done, Ivy had come out of it with her very own nightclub. Selina didn't look at every situation in terms of right and wrong the way Bruce did, but this one was starting to feel like - a miscarriage of justice. One that didn't sit right with her.

He nodded. "You'll tell Mr. Dent and the others I'm gone, right? And that I'm not coming back? Some of them are all right, but I think both Roxy and I would like to put a thousand miles between us and Ivy."

Selina smiled slightly. "And leave the rest of us stuck with her? I don't know if I can forgive you for that - although I can certainly empathize. I'm going to have to deal with her sooner than I care to."

"I feel your pain."

"Yeah," she sighed. "Look, tell Roxy I hope she'll be all right. And that I hope you two make it down south."

"Thanks, she'll appreciate that, coming from you. She always thought important Rogues like you didn't respect her."

Selina thought "respect" was too strong a word for what she thought of Roxy, but she let it go.

* * *

"Ms. Leibowitz? There's a - problem you need to take care of."

Jenna Leibowitz sighed. Teenagers, even the ones in college, had such astounding initiative when it came to playing pranks, and yet they were hopelessly paralyzed when it came to problem solving and decision-making. "I'm a little busy, Trish. Just tell me what it is, and I'm sure one of you can handle it," she said, gesturing to her paperwork.

"Yeah, well, there are these - customers? And they've been sitting at Table 12, and they're starting to scare people."

Jenna looked at her dubiously. "_Scare_ them? What are they, Hell's Angels?"

Trish tugged at her hair nervously. "Actually, I think they might be criminals. Or they're wearing masks. But we're getting a little scared too."

She was confusing criminals with people in masks. Well, in Gotham that could really only mean one thing, couldn't it?

Jenna suddenly found herself "a little scared too." But not entirely for the same reasons. "I'll take care of it, Trish," she said, getting up. The girl retreated gratefully as she did.

This, Jenna thought peevishly as she left her office, was a Starbucks. While a Starbucks Coffee franchise could be a real money machine, they didn't really have the kind of cash on the premises that would justify a robbery when there were perfectly good banks in Gotham. Why would criminals, much less "themed" criminals, come to HER store? Or maybe this was the theme. Maybe they were going to hit every Starbucks in Gotham, and her store was first.

Of course, if they WERE going to rob every Starbucks, they probably wouldn't get to them all before closing time.

Jenna pushed her red hair out of her eyes as she came around the front counter and saw Table 12 being given a wide berth. The line in Starbucks at this hour generally went straight back to the door, but today that line would take them right past Table 12, and so the line bulged like the Allies in World War II. All because of four men, three of whom were pretty normal. Two of them looked familiar, but you couldn't remember from where.

The fourth, however, was unmistakableTwo-Face. And when you realized that, then you realized the first two looked a lot like Edward "Riddler" Nigma and Jonathan "Scarecrow" Crane.

She didn't recognize the other guy.

Jenna stood still for a moment as she calmed her nerves. This was her store, she was both owner and general manager, it was her own petty fiefdom, and events only unfolded the way she wanted them to. She'd seen these men - at least three of them, anyway - at the Iceberg Lounge, and whatever their reputation was, they were still men, and they could be handled.

"Good morning, sirs," Jenna said as she came to their table, standing just behind Two-Face so she didn't have to look at him and debate whether the wise course was to stare at his face, or ignore it completely. "I hope you're enjoying our selection?"

"I just finished another of your chai lattes," Edward Nigma said. "Or rather, HI CAT TALES," he added, looking directly at the one she couldn't identify.

This man seemed to snarl at him, and suddenly Jenna placed him. Tom Blake, aka the Catman. Not exactly the high-profile Rogue one would associate with the other three, but then some Rogues weren't exactly the coffeehouse types.

"You'll have to forgive our 'friends'," Two-Face said, sneering. "They got into a slap fight yesterday, and they haven't exactly kissed and made up yet."

"Would any of you care for a refill?" Jenna asked. "To go, perhaps?" she added gingerly.

There was a tense pause while Harvey fished a coin out of his pocket and flipped it. "We'd like another Red Eye with a double shot of espresso," he finally replied. "Why don't we come with you and get it ourselves?"

Jenna swallowed as he stood up. Her fiefdom was starting to look a little shaky.

The other three dismissed her and resumed their conversation as if the two had already left. "Some of the henchmen," Nigma said offhandedly, "have already talked about going back to Pete's Sports Bar."

"Absolutely not," Blake replied. "We will absolutely not be going back there. If we do, it will look like we're following the henchmen - "

"And you've had so many of THOSE," Crane interjected dryly.

"Instead of the other way around," Blake continued, "and pretty soon they'll start thinking of themselves as human beings instead of cannon fodder for the Bat while one makes his getaway."

"With the help of your amazing Technicolor cloak."

"Of course YOU would make references to Broadway shows," Blake shot back, and Crane glared at him. "Besides," Blake complained, "everyone smokes there, and do you know how hard it is getting cigarette smoke out of my cape?"

"Thankfully, no," Nigma said.

"Cripes," Two-Face muttered as he dragged Jenna away. "Fucking prima donnas."

"You can't really come behind the counter," Jenna said with a degree of urgency.

"No problem," Harvey answered as he steered them towards the front counter where the line ended. He leaned on the countertop on one elbow, ignoring the customers right behind him. "We'll just wait here until our Red Eye - double shot, remember - is finished."

The line quietly shuffled toward the second cash register while a few less hardy souls dropped out of the rear of the line.

"You can just wait at your table if you - " Jenna said weakly.

"Actually, we'd like to get away from them for a couple minutes," Harvey said. "We would have come without Crane and Blake, but ever since Wayne Manor, they've got to be involved in every stage of the situation, like a coupla PTA moms with nothing better to do. As for Eddie, nice guy and all, but we would have preferred the cafe at Borders. Of course, with Eddie Borders equals Doris, so that idea was out." Harvey's grin became almost rueful. "We couldn't even agree on a place to get coffee. How are we going to agree on a new nightspot?"

"Um," Jenna said noncommittally as she prepared his Red Eye. "New nightspot?" If that was the problem, then maybe she could get them all out of her store once the question got answered.

"Yeah," Harvey sighed. "You know the Iceberg?"

"I've - heard of it," Jenna lied. She'd been there a few times, years ago.

"Well, seems Poison Ivy's taken over the Lounge so she can turn it into her own personal jungle gym. And not to go into details, but we used to have this little thing with Ivy, and we don't need to flip a coin to know we don't want to keep going to a nightclub run by a vengeful ex with a rancid personality - that was three shots," he suddenly said, annoyed.

Jenna looked down. She could have given him six for all she remembered, she realized. She'd stopped paying attention to the coffee once he'd mentioned Poison Ivy. "Right, sorry," she said. "Will four do?"

He sighed and gave his coin another flip. "Heads," he said. "Four will do."

"What would have happened if it came up tails?" a tourist couldn't refrain from asking.

Harvey turned to look at the customers in line, having almost forgotten they - the six or seven that remained - were there. "Technically there is no 'tails,'" he explained conversationally. "There is another head – scarred. If it came up, we would have shot her for trying to give us three."

Jenna's hand shook as she gave him a fourth shot _very_ carefully and brought the coffee over. "Poison Ivy, you were saying?" she asked, hoping to get him to put that coin away again.

"Yeah, Pammy," he said, then grunted. "Anyway, the Iceberg was such a popular place for types like us, we're not exactly sure where to go now. Kinda forgot what it's like not being welcome when we enter a bar." He took his coffee, then looked at her. "Say, do we know you?" he asked.

"I doubt it," Jenna said quickly.

He shrugged and headed back to Table 12.

She felt compelled to follow him as her brain processed what she'd learned. As she came back within hearing range of the other three, she heard Crane talking about the unbelievability of the situation. "And I say, if Oswald has been greened, then perhaps it's what he deserves. Obviously the Lounge must be vastly more profitable than Oswald led us to believe all these years if _Poison Ivy_ is willing to lower herself and take on a common TRADE."

"If you need anything else," Jenna said absently as this last bit of information hit her, "Trish will be happy to help you."

Then she turned around and went back to her office.

Sitting down at her desk, Jenna thought about the future. While the franchise continued to be profitable, she knew for a fact that another Starbucks would be opening up two blocks away in three months. Jenna couldn't seem to make the regional managers understand that this would have the unintended effect of cannibalizing her own sales. They seemed to believe that same-store sales would continue to grow even with a Starbucks on every street corner in America.

If she got out now, she could use the return on her investment . . . and a few private investors always looking for the next young hot thing, especially if it was stolen from something that was already a success . . .

There was evidently a market that only the Iceberg Lounge catered to, and it didn't sound like the Lounge would be open much longer. Whereas SHE had infinitely more managerial experience. And unlike Poison Ivy, she was willing to give the Rogues what they wanted, knowing also that the Rogues were what the _tourists_ wanted. It could be a major cash cow.

Plus, there was the incident years ago . . . Poison Ivy had humiliated her, not to mention infested her apartment with so much mold that everything she owned was ruined. Ivy had accused her of thinking she could "replace" Ivy, when all Jenna had wanted was to be like her. Apparently thinking you could be as good as Ivy was the worst kind of sin. Well, how would Ivy like it if she went ahead and actually _did it?_

That would be a more satisfying vengeance than grinding millions of coffee beans.

* * *

Ivy leaned back and pressed her hands against the small of her back. She hadn't spent so much time bent over a desk in years, including the times she'd been hunched over a microscope in her greenhouse labs. She really needed to get outside and feel the sun on her body, she thought. It had been too long. Maybe a precious hour at the park -

She glanced at the clock to see how long it would be until sunset, and was dismayed to realize it had already come and gone. She'd put in twelve hours that day, and it wasn't the first time. Ivy was drowning in so much work that her body clock didn't even recognize when sunset was approaching.

Still, that same work could be surprisingly therapeutic. It had provided her with a distraction not only from the time, but also recent unpleasantness like that scene in Arkham with - Harley.

Over time, Ivy had assured herself that the best thing to do was give Harley time on her own. She really couldn't be blamed for what happened at the asylum. Who could have predicted Harley would react that way? Really, Harley just needed to work it out herself. What she needed was counseling, and wasn't that what the doctors were there for? And when Harley got out, she'd come right to Ivy to apologize for that little scene.

Ivy certainly wasn't avoiding her.

But the memory of their encounter made her feel uneasy, and she scowled, pushing the thought away. She preferred to think about the problems she COULD do something about. The Iceberg renovations had grown progressively more elaborate as her ideas for the Lounge expanded, and as long as the Lounge remained close**d** for repairs, the costs were consuming the profits she'd started realizing from Oswald's underworld business. Her original grand designs for that money had been put on hold.

And she had to keep a close eye on the contractor. She'd been FORCED to hire a man for the job, and knowing men, he'd cut corners and build on the cheap whenever he had the chance.

Plus Sly had yet to return her phone calls. Ivy had been prepared to forgive him for threatening her and running to Roxy's aid the other night. Nobody could mix a cosmopolitan the way he could. Plus his popularity with the customers was such that four of them had once driven almost the length of the East Coast to bring him back to Gotham after he left. (May one of the four rot in Hell.)

And Oswald had helpfully pointed out that when you changed an establishment as much as she was about to, it was important that some familiar element remain if she wanted to hold onto her regular customers.

Ivy still felt that being the owner meant doing what SHE wanted, not what the customers thought they wanted until she showed them how puerile their limited tastes really were. She'd even briefly considered discarding most of the Iceberg's regular clientele and hanging a sign over the doors that said "No Men Allowed", but economics wouldn't allow it.

Fortunately, most of Oswald's other employees were women, and so it was relatively easy to retain the more experienced staff. Ivy had contacted all of the regular female employees and promised them they would keep their jobs at their old pay.

She'd also grudgingly added Sly's name to the call list. His failure to answer or return her calls, she thought darkly, was leading her to reconsider.

Despite this, she'd pumped Oswald for advice on much more than just whether or not to retain Sly. He may not have been _able_ to run the place himself, but he had no trouble _remembering_ how, and she'd questioned him for hours about things she reluctantly admitted to knowing nothing about, like liquor delivery and payroll service providers.

There was a rapping at her office door - Ivy stopped. Her office. Not Oswald's, she wasn't borrowing it, it was hers. She had an office and a desk and a file cabinet. This was NOT an acceptable lifestyle for Gaia's Goddess, and she had only herself to blame. Well, herself and Oswald. If he could only take his mind off her for five fucking minutes, she wouldn't have to run the place herself and would be free to return to her greenhouse, perhaps fix up a little room in the back for when Harley was finally out of Arkham and ready to —

"Come in," she said, putting her head in her hands. It was probably one of the fool workmen, needing a diagram and an instruction manual to understand where something was supposed to go. Since this was her office now, she really needed to get rid of Oswald's stuff and make it more -

"Pammy?"

Ivy looked up. "Selina," she said, standing up. "You really shouldn't be here, I TOLD them not to . . ."

Selina grinned. "You can't keep a cat out if she wants in – or vice versa."

"Oh, right, of course. Well, I suppose the cat's out of the bag, if you'll forgive the expression. I'm going to be running the Lounge from now on."

"Not sure how to tell you this, Ivy, but half of Gotham has heard the news by now. Eddie got hold of one of your flyers."

Ivy scowled. "Nigma," she muttered. "Mister Know-it-all."

She seemed not to notice that one of Eddie's friends was in the room, but Selina had become used to such tactlessness from her long ago. Selina's smile belied the tension she felt inside. From the beginning she'd realized that she couldn't just TELL Ivy this was a mistake. She had to lead Ivy there, so the goddess reached the conclusion in her own divine style. Knowing Ivy's aversion to work – or indeed any sort of activity she considered beneath her, Selina thought she had a shot if she could hammer away at the dull, monotonous, unglamorous, and ungoddesslike aspects of running a business.

Now, however, as she took in Ivy's tired face and the desk littered with papers, Selina realized it might not be that simple. If Ivy hadn't known before, by now she was QUITE well aware of the amount of work it took to run a bar. And so far, she was doing it anyway.

Still, it wasn't like Selina had much of an alternative. She couldn't just scratch the idea out of Ivy's head with a few swift claw swipes – satisfying though it might be to try. They weren't friends to begin with, and everything she'd heard about Ivy lately ruffled her fur. Nevertheless, she knew she had to at least _attempt_ a reasonable, non-hissing, non-scratching appeal to a reasonable, non-psychotic equal before proceeding to anything more extreme that might actually work.

"Mind if I sit?" Selina asked.

"Please. Since there's no longer a question of surprise, what do you think?"

"Um," Selina said. "It looks very nice."

"Yes, well, we'll see what the men think. Naturally women such as ourselves are more appreciative of Nature's beauty."

"You don't think all this effort will be wasted on them?"

"It probably will, but if I've got to be here every night, it should look a little like the parks I'm leaving behind."

Selina thought a "LITTLE" was an understatement. So far it looked like it was going to be a cross between a Rainforest Cafe and one of those rides at Epcot Center where the little car moved past plants singing the praises of the American farmland. "You're giving up a lot," she said casually. "I hope it will be worth it."

"It will when it's finished," Ivy said. Maybe a little too forcefully, Selina thought.

"I didn't realize you had such a knack for paperwork," Selina went on brightly, gesturing to the stacks on the desk. "I guess you'll be dealing with this every day from now on."

Ivy frowned. She'd been telling herself that the work would be much easier once the renovations were completed, but even she couldn't deny that her inbox would fill up again every night for months to come. Years even, ugh.

She had an _inbox_. It nauseated her just thinking about it.

"I mean," Selina went on, "it seems like a fight broke out here every other night. I can't think how many times that chandelier had to be replaced. I don't know how Oswald managed it without having a stroke."

"I believe alcohol may have been involved," Ivy said.

"And of course there's the customers when they're NOT fighting. Oswald always knew how to schmooze his regulars - well, at least he thought he did. Pammy, seriously, are you prepared for the first time Harvey sits at a table and you need to make idle chit-chat?" Selina asked.

She wrinkled her nose as she detected a few faint whiffs of lemon, with an underlying scent that was somehow heavier. "Really, Selina," Ivy said with a trace of hostility, "you're sounding awfully negative. Gaia's Chosen can do anything she sets her mind to. Anyway, why talk about the bar? I'm here all the time. Frankly, I'm sick of talking about the bar."

"If you're already sick of talking about the bar, then maybe you should get out now," Selina pointed out.

The Lemon Pledge smell became a little more pronounced. The other smell was there too, kind of like how a jungle might smell right after the rain. "Why Selina," Ivy said through her now false smile, "could our mutual friend Eddie have talked to our mutual friend Harvey, and could they have asked you to drop by to talk me out of opening up my nightclub?"

"Fine, Let's talk about something else then," Selina said reasonably. She had chalked this mission up as a lost cause, but that didn't allow one to pull a cat's tail. "Mutual friends," she declared, if that was the topic Ivy wanted, she would be happy to oblige. "How's Harley doing?"

Ivy's brow tightened and her smile slipped a little. "She's fine," she said curtly. "She's not really up for visitors right now, though."

"You mean she's still upset about Joker," Selina said frankly.

"Unlike everyone else," Ivy sniffed.

"Maybe you should have thought twice before you killed your best 'gal pal's' boyfriend," Selina suggested gently.

"Ex-boyfriend," Ivy hissed. "And everybody knows it was Ra's al-Ghul who ordered—"

"Cut the crap, Pammy," Selina said, tired of Ivy's attitude. "Everyone says you filled the room with so much pheromones that the hairdo's boys couldn't have scratched their own chins without your orders. You killed her Puddin, she's angry with you, and now you're inconveniencing everyone by screwing with Oswald's place - not to mention screwing with Oswald himself! Just something to do with your time until Harley forgives you, right?"

"You don't know anything about what happened that night!" Ivy screeched. She stood up from her chair with such force that it rolled backwards and struck the wall. She folded her arms and walked out from behind the desk, facing away from Selina. "Or between me and Harley at Arkham! You weren't there!"

"You're right, I wasn't," Selina said, trying to ignore the lemon and the second, harder to identify scent. The smell was becoming oppressive. "But right now your body is telling me exactly what happened. I don't know if she's 'up for visitors' or not, but she's obviously not up for you."

Instead of turning on her with outraged denials, as Selina was expecting, Ivy remained motionless for a few moments. Then her shoulders started shaking.

Selina was startled to hear a quiet whimpering sound. "Ivy?" she asked hesitantly.

Ivy turned around, and Selina could see that her cheeks were already streaked with tears. "Oh, Selina," she wailed, "she's still miserable over that disgusting creature, and I'm just making it worse!"

Selina didn't know how to respond to that. Of all the reactions she'd expected from Ivy that night, sobbing had not been one of them.

But Ivy interpreted Selina's silence as an invitation for her to let it out. "He's finally dead and Harley should be able to move on now, but she won't, she refuses to! She's like a flowering vine that grew around something she thought was an oak tree, but actually it was a tree all rotted out from the inside with shriveled roots . . . no, he wasn't even a tree, he was a - a telephone pole!"

This was becoming increasingly bizarre, Selina thought, but she just let Ivy continue. Something useful might be learned from this, and besides, it was hard not feeling just a TINY bit sympathetic. She was right that Joker was a worthless cad, she was right that Harley was better off without him, she was right that Harley really should have rushed to her friend the moment she was free. Ivy really had been a friend to her always. What was Harley thinking turning her back on a friend like Ivy for a —

"A telephone pole!" Ivy affirmed. "A foul construct of man masquerading as a tree, taken from the body of some tall, noble tree somewhere - well, anyway, he was worthless, but Harley never realized that, and she let herself grow all coiled around him. And now that they finally cut down that miserable pole, Harley doesn't know how to grow on her own, and she's lost and confused and she won't let me help her!" She choked on her tears. "And I don't even know how!"

"There, there," Selina said. She wasn't sure how it happened, but a moment ago she'd been sitting in a chair, and now she was standing next to Ivy and rubbing her shoulder awkwardly. "Harley will come around, I'm sure she'll let you help her, Pammy. How could she not, why anybody would with a friend like you waiting to take care of them."

"But it's because of me she's even in that cold, horrible place!" Ivy sobbed. "Letting them take her away was easier than having to comfort her, or even listen to her crying for that monster! Now she's different, Selina! She's sad and quiet and alone and those are her good days! _I'm a reason she has bad days!_ I made her hurt herself! I'm a terrible friend because I'm never going back as long as I think she might have another breakdown because of me. So Harley's trapped in that airless hole, and I'm trapped in here with no sun and no green and piles of papers, and I'll make a mess of this place just like I did with Harley and everything else! And my babies are lonely without me!"

At this point Ivy actually leaned forward and put her face on Selina's shoulder, getting the leather damp. Not only did Selina not care, but she put her arm around Ivy. "Now don't be too hard on yourself," she said soothingly. "Harley's very upset right now, but she'll get over the Joker's death eventually, and I know you'll be there when it happens to help her move on. You were there every other time that bastard threw her out, weren't you?"

"I guess," Ivy mumbled.

"And you don't mess up everything. I'm sure the new Lounge is going to be beautiful. Nature's beauty, right? Like only we women can appreciate? Only you could make this place so . . . so lovely, and flowery and green as you're planning. In fact, _I_ messed up, Pamela. As a sister Rogue of equal standing, I should have been more supportive of your efforts here. Really, what you're doing here is a great thing."

Neither Ivy nor Selina felt the least bit surprised by Selina's response. Ivy just raised her head a little. "Really?" she asked hopefully. "You think I can do this?"

"I'm sure of it," Selina said with certainty. She still felt bad though, for causing Ivy's heartwrenching flood of tears when she should have done the opposite. Searching for another way to cheer her up, her eyes traveled downward and picked up on Ivy's shoes. "Ooo, Jimmy Choo's?"

Ivy looked down. "Um, yes, I think so," she said, inspecting her green shoes.

"Do you remember if they had any in black? I've been dying for a pair like those."

"I - I think so."

"You know what? This argument is silly," Selina announced. "I shouldn't have started it. To make it up to you, how about next time you're free, we go shoe shopping together, and maybe I can find those shoes in my color?"

Ivy blinked. She was finally starting to notice that Selina's behavior had become VERY unusual. But then, bawling like an infant was unusual for her too. And it WAS nice that Selina seemed to have realized the error of her thinking. "I suppose, all right."

"Well, I'd better go," Selina said. "Like you said, you do still have piles of papers to go through. Besides, you look tired. Try getting some sleep, and you'll feel better in the morning."

"Soon, maybe," Ivy sighed, looking at her desk.

Selina slipped out of Ivy's office. It was nice of Pammy to be forgiving, she thought. It was ironic that Ivy was upset that she hadn't been a good enough friend to Harley, and Selina had done the exact same thing to Ivy.

In the future she would try to be a better friend to Pammy. Her opinion was very important to Selina. Some people - mostly men, of course - didn't appreciate the fact that Poison Ivy was the true queen of Gotham's underworld. She had so many qualities that Selina admired. Besides her obvious taste in shoes and her dedication to the environment, Pammy always looked stunning. Though some people wouldn't believe it, sometimes Selina wished she could be a natural redhead too. (Although even she thought "alabaster" was a bit of a stretch.)

Plus she was intelligent and funny, almost like a cat, and she was a longstanding respected member of the top rung of the Gotham underworld. Not to mention she was a _great_ conversationalist . . .

Selina stopped not ten yards from the Iceberg Lounge and put a hand to her head. Poison Ivy was a great WHAT?

* * *

Five minutes later Ivy was back in her chair, facing away from her desk and still thinking about what just happened. She'd been an absolute wreck a little while ago, but Ivy admitted that there were some things she'd tried to deny since seeing Harley. At least she felt better now that she'd let it out. And Selina had been surprisingly nice about it.

She also felt more confident about the success of the Rydbergii, even though the secret was out. The element of surprise was gone, and those silly men were already marshalling support against her plans. Smart of them to enlist Selina, although it could never have worked, even if Selina _hadn't_ proven so unexpectedly open to reason.

Ivy wiped her eyes again, and suddenly found herself looking forward to that shoe shopping trip Selina had promised. She would need something nice for the grand reopening.

That was her last thought before she was unceremoniously dumped out of her chair from behind. She fell heavily onto the floor, then found herself lifted up straight as a feminine arm wrapped tightly across her neck. Ivy gasped as her eyes turned first to the right and saw claws.

"Tell me, Pammy," Selina murmured into her ear. "Tell me why I don't seem to have any memory of the past five minutes. I wasn't planning on using the claws tonight, but now I think it might do me some good after all."

To be continued . . .


	6. Chapter 6

Batman had learned that you could tell a lot about Selina's mood from the sound of her footsteps when she made her way down the Batcave steps while in costume. There was a light, almost jaunty quality to her step after a particularly good prowl, for example.

What he heard behind him as he worked at the Batcomputer was NOT the happy clip clip after a good prowl. It was the sound of a cat who'd been hissing and spitting at an interloper, if that cat happened to be wearing high heels on stone steps. It was the sound, in other words, of someone who had a typical encounter with Poison Ivy.

"I wouldn't go near Pammy any time soon," Selina said, validating his suspicion.

"That bad?" he asked, turning around in his chair.

"Yes – No," she replied. "'That bad' implies the norm, just a typically infuriating encounter with the infuriating leaf bitch. Learning a whole new trick 'greening' people she's never been able to affect before, that falls into a whole new category."

Bruce scowled. "How did this happen?" he asked darkly. "Who did she green?"

Selina didn't look all that eager to tell her story as she leaned against a workstation. "Well, you're never going to believe this," she said, "and if you do, you'll like it even less than I do, but the person she greened . . . was me."

* * *

"Selina!" Ivy gasped as she clutched futilely at the arm around her throat. "What - I don't understand - "

"I know you're a pro when it comes to denial, Pammy," Selina said icily, "but don't try and deny what you just did to me. One moment we're arguing about Harley, and the next thing I know, I'm out on the pavement thinking what a wonderful conversationalist you are. The only explanation I can come up with for such a patently ludicrous idea, not to mention having no memory of the past five minutes, is that you 'greened' me."

"What?!" Ivy yelped.

"You didn't like the way our talk was going, you didn't like being told things you didn't want to hear, so you turned me into your new best friend," Selina continued. "I have to admit, if I wasn't so royally pissed at you right now I'd be a little impressed - all those years you pretended your powers didn't work on women - "

"But they don't!" Ivy insisted. "Don't you think I tried long ago? I mean, look," she said, thinking quickly. "Even assuming you're right, obviously the effects don't last long at all. Why on earth would I green you, knowing you wouldn't have gotten far by the time my pheromones wore off and you'd just come back and – and do you have to be digging those claws of yours quite that far into my throat?" she ended miserably.

"Yes," Selina hissed.

"Okay fair enough," Ivy backpedaled. "Um, okay ah, how about this," she stalled, her mind racing for some explanation. "YES!" she blurted as inspiration dawned, "if I could green women, don't you think I would have greened Harley ages ago?"

Selina thought about this for a moment. Then she shook her head without relinquishing her grip. "Sorry, Ivy, but it doesn't wash. I've heard the boys talk about what it's like being 'in the green' shall we say, and what happened to me sounds almost _exactly_ like that."

"But, But-" was as far as Ivy got before the cold prick of a razor sharp claw under her left ear made her reconsider.

"How ELSE do you explain what happened to me?" Selina asked viciously. "Didn't my behavior earlier strike you as – let's call it _atypical_?"

"No," Ivy admitted. She wasn't one to see anything wrong in another person voicing their support and admiration. Although, now that she thought about it, Selina's views did sort of shift during their conversation, and pretty suddenly at that. The explanation that made the most sense was that she'd somehow used her pheromones on Selina without meaning to. But she couldn't imagine how she could have possibly - "The herbs!" she realized.

"What?"

"I've been taking these herbs, they've increased the power of my pheromones," Ivy explained. "It's possible that they're allowing me to control women too."

"Okay," Selina said, shrugging. "Now that we've established what you did to me, I guess the beating can begin - "

"I didn't mean it!" Ivy said, struggling now. "I didn't know!"

"You expect me to believe you can't control your own powers?"

"Yes - well, normally no, but today yes!"

Selina paused. The remark was so typically Pammy – even (rightfully) afraid of what Selina might do to her, she could barely admit to any weakness - that a tiny part of her was almost ready to believe her. "Okay," she said.

Ivy stopped moving. "Okay?"

"People _are_ capable of behaving irrationally when they're under the influence of drugs or other herbs," Selina said in a tone that seemed mildly reasonable. "So there is a _slight_ chance you might be telling the truth and you didn't know what you were doing."

"I didn't - "

"So," Selina cut off the interruption by tightening her grip once more, as if to say no, you're not out of the woods just yet. "Since there is a slight chance, instead of scratching up your face immediately, you and I are going to have a little talk with whoever sold you those herbs. And if it turns out what you're describing is possible, then we'll see."

"But Selina, the contractors - I have to - they're such _men_ and - "

"Of course," Selina added, "if you're lying - well, you remember how long poor Harvey was in the hospital after he accidentally killed Ivan?"

Pammy nodded.

"_Double_ that."

* * *

"Ivy never had the ability to green women in the past," Bruce interrupted in that tone of his that said he was speaking of an unquestionable fact.

"Well, I thought that too," Selina replied, a little annoyed. "But since there weren't many other explanations for why I suddenly enjoyed her gift for gab, I think I can be forgiven for questioning if that was really true or not. Do you mind if I continue?"

"In all the time Barbara was Batgirl," he went on, "Ivy never tried to green her. Myself, Dick, Tim, Jason - many times. But never a woman, any woman. If she was capable of affecting women all along, why would she hide it? It would have kept her out of Arkham at least twice."

"Thank you, world's greatest detective," Selina said.

Bruce nodded thoughtfully. "I'm also intrigued by what little you remember about how Ivy's pheromones affected you. From what you've described, it sounds like you admired, even idolized her, but you didn't mention any echoes of a _sexual_ attraction." He stopped as a look of revulsion crossed Selina's face. "What?"

"What? You need to ask? I've done a damn good job of ignoring that horrific possibility, thank you very much, until _you_ said _that_. I'm sure I'll have nightmares now, thanks," Selina said darkly.

"At any rate," Bruce replied, "it's interesting that even now that her powers work on women, she can't affect you _that_ way. They must not be able to change a person's sexual orientation. In fact, it's possible that homosexual males are equally immune."

"Bruce," Selina sighed. "I spent over an hour with Ivy tonight, and – much as you're going to hate this – Pammy's own speculations covered most of this same ground. So bottom line is I'm exhausted – not to mention sick of the subject. If you're not going to let me finish, then I'm going to bed."

Bruce grunted. "Fine. What happened at the - magic shop?"

Selina smiled affectionately and kissed his cheek.

"My poor baby, the M-word. And you got the word out on the first try."

* * *

"A magic store?" Selina asked doubtfully. "I didn't realize your taste in shopping extended beyond garden supplies. Of course, after Aurora's Pots, I guess anything's possible."

"She - " Ivy started to say, then squirmed a little in Selina's grasp. Her arm was _really_ starting to hurt. "She - the Bun Lady - she had a booth at that awful Scottish festival, the one where they tossed those poor defenseless trees about like they were playthings! She sold me some herbs, and I noticed my powers seemed a lot stronger."

Selina nodded. "That's how you were able to make the trees attack, weren't you?" She shook her head and chuckled. "Funny how you always wind up hurting the things you love, Pammy. Those 'poor, defenseless trees' of yours weren't really in that much trouble until you pitted them against a fire-breathing demon."

"_I_ wasn't the one who burned them up!" Pammy shot back.

"Just like you weren't the one who murdered Joker in front of Harley?" Selina asked gently.

Ivy actually flinched, Selina noticed as she dragged her into the store.

The bell over the door rang as they entered, and an older woman looked up from the counter. She took one look at them, Selina in her purple and Ivy with her green skin, and reacted accordingly. "Absolutely not, no," she said, coming around the counter and waving her hands in the air. "I knew it was probably a mistake doing business with you, and I am not about to get mixed up with every criminal in Gotham."

"Whoa, take it easy," Selina said, her eyes taking in the store merchandise. It was everything you'd expect from a magic shop - one part New Age crystals and herbal remedies, one part fortune teller, one part Herder's Cutlery. "I'm not here to buy, I'm just looking for information about something she says you sold her."

The shop owner looked her over. "Well, I suppose that's all right. Although I don't know why you can't just ask her."

"Pammy here has a bit of a credibility problem," Selina explained. "She seems to think I'll take her word for it when she says that you - "

"Miriam," the other woman said.

Selina smiled. "Miriam. Seems to think I'll take her word for it when she says you sold her herbs which made her use her powers without knowing it."

Miriam shook her head and sighed. "How often have you been using those herbs?" she asked Ivy.

"Not that often," Ivy said vaguely. "Once a day. Maybe twice occasionally."

"Oh, is that all?" Miriam asked sarcastically.

"Is that bad?" Selina asked.

"Well, it depends on how you define bad," Miriam said. "She's basically overdosing on those herbs. Sacred Glen, Dragon's Blood Resin, and Flax Seed. Dragon's Blood in particular . . . they're not _narcotics_, she won't cause herself serious physical harm or anything. But even if she doesn't know it, by now her system is on overload."

"I _am_ in the room, you know," Ivy said crossly.

"Fine," Miriam replied. "I'll talk to you directly, but I'll talk to you like a child, because I tried telling you this as an adult the last time, and look where you've ended up."

It was bad enough that Selina's claws had her arm in a pincer grip since before they left the Lounge. But to be spoken to with such disrespect!

"She came in several days ago," Miriam said to Selina. "Since I don't deal with _that_ many green-skinned people – "

"It's alabaster," Ivy corrected her.

Miriam eyed her dubiously. "If you really believe that, then I see what she means by a credibility problem. Anyway, as I was saying, I recognized her by her skin tone. I sold her some herbs at the Highland Games festival a few months ago. At the time I didn't realize she was Poison Ivy, I thought she was just some – "

"Renfest-natureloving-Wiccan oddball?" Selina suggested.

"Not exactly the words I was going for, but you catch my meaning," Miriam acknowledged. "Anyway, she comes into my store, starts browsing like she has no idea what she's looking for when I know exactly what she wants. 'Come off it,' I said, 'you want magic, what is it?'. So she hems and haws for a bit before admitting she wants more of what I sold her the last time."

"And you sold it to her, knowing who she was?" Selina asked.

"Well," Miriam said, "I wasn't keen on the notion, but the code of the shop is the customer gets what she wants. I'll make an exception if I get some kind of sign or omen that things will end badly, but that wasn't the case here." She gave Ivy a stern look. "I also warned you that these herbs weren't something you took every morning like they were _gingko biloba_ or something, but I guess that wasn't something you wanted to hear, was it?"

"She's very good at not hearing that kind of thing," Selina said.

"Look, I'm not a magic expert," Ivy complained.

"Which is why you listen to the person who is," Miriam said pointedly. "If you're going to go on using them indiscriminately, you'll just have to get them from someplace else. And certainly not if you're going to bring more of your criminal friends back." She turned back to Selina. "No offense, but when you came in with her, I thought she'd gone and run her mouth about me to every superpowered lawbreaker looking for a dime bag of mojo."

"So it IS possible that she's been using her powers without intending to?" Selina asked.

"It _was_ her responsible for those trees coming to life at the Highland Games, wasn't it?"

Selina nodded.

"Then I'm surprised every tree she's passed hasn't uprooted itself and followed her home like a stray puppy," Miriam said. "She'll need to stop taking those herbs for at least a week before she gets all the Dragon's Blood out of her system. Then she needs to dial down the usage. Otherwise magic will go on bleeding out of her pores until, most likely, she burns out and can never use her powers again."

Selina looked at Ivy. "Well, wouldn't that be too bad."

But Miriam's last words, unlike everything else said, had gotten through to Ivy. "I'll . . . be more careful," she mumbled.

Reluctantly, Selina let go of her.

"Now that that's settled, is there anything you might be interested in?" Miriam asked Selina, suddenly all business. "I have a Bast statuette from – "

"I think we'll just be leaving."

* * *

"I told you I didn't do it on purpose," Ivy said waspishly. She was already thinking about how much slower all those lazy MEN must be working at the Rydbergii while she was away on this silly little –

Selina frowned. "Nothing said in there actually _proves_ you're telling the truth. You could have known exactly what you were doing."

Ivy suddenly forgot about the renovations. She'd stopped thinking Selina was going to hurt her, but it was starting to sound like the scratching post treatment was still a possibility . . . of course she COULD just green Selina and make her getaway . . . but it obviously didn't take long for the effects to wear off. How far could she really get?

"Then again," Selina said, "you are exactly the kind of person who would just _assume_ she had a handle on her new powers without making sure."

That sounded quite a bit like an insult, Ivy thought, but it also seemed to be working in her favor here, so she bit her lip and said nothing.

"Look Pammy, what Miriam said means you _might_ be telling the truth, that's all. You've still got a credibility problem. You have _never in your life_ done _anything_ that would lead someone to give you the benefit of the doubt. Think about that some time."

Ivy continued to bite her lip - only harder.

Selina sighed. "But I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt anyway. Don't ask me why, maybe I just don't want to clean sap out from under my claws. Just remember - no more accidents next time our paths cross. And be _grateful_ I can't remember any of the things I said to you earlier. Otherwise I might not feel so forgiving."

Ivy bitterly reflected that she could still remember the things Selina said, and she'd liked them just fine. Now that they were exposed as mere effects of greening, all the good feelings they had engendered now tasted like ash. She'd always gloried in the praise men lavished on her when they were under her control. Yet now she wanted Selina to say those things again, and really mean them.

"So," Ivy said, wondering why this was so important to her that she was admittedly pressing her luck, "are you sure you wouldn't want to come back to the Rydbergii with me? There are certain improvements that you really couldn't have appreciated without having someone point them out to you."

Selina looked at her strangely. "Er, I think I'll pass, thanks anyway."

"I think you'll like the ivy growing on the north wall. It's not quite thick enough yet, but when it's ready it will be like a big blanket, and I'm going to set some blowers up that will create a really nice undulating effect."

"Ivy - "

"Still, you're an art thief, you've got a good eye. What did you think of the place from what you saw of it?"

"Pammy," Selina said, suddenly understanding what she was fishing for. "If you're looking for validation, you've got the wrong person. Better wait until Harley is released."

Ivy winced. Evidently Selina had also forgotten everything Ivy said about Harley earlier, as well as her own reassuring comments. Ivy didn't feel like repeating why she didn't expect Harley to be visiting her any time soon, for fear of turning into a sobbing wreck again - this time in public. She looked down. "Do you - do you still like my shoes?"

"Excuse me?"

"Earlier when - you know - you told me you liked my shoes. You even, um, suggested we go buy you a matching pair in black - I guess that's off, huh?"

Selina's first instinct was a flat rejection, but she held back for a moment. The questions were becoming - for Ivy - strikingly needy, even vulnerable. Despite her earlier comment, Selina did remember a little of what was said at the Iceberg before her memories got hazy. Ivy was basically embarking on a new and completely different career, and she was doing it alone. It all made her seem more . . . human. She looked at Ivy's feet.

"Yes, I like your shoes," she finally said. "And no, we're not going shopping together any time soon."

Just because she was willing to be a little nicer to Ivy didn't mean she had to commit to spending another few hours with her. Shoe shopping was supposed to be a pleasurable experience, after all.

"Because I was thinking I need a new handbag to go with these," Ivy told her.

Selina chuckled and shook her head. "Good night, Pammy."

* * *

"You going shopping with Ivy might not be such a bad idea," Bruce suggested. "You could keep an eye on her, gather information..."

She looked at him as if he was speaking in Swahili. "Sure," she said finally. "And if Joker was still alive, I'm sure he would have loved taking in a ballgame with his best pal Brucie."

"You said yourself that it's probably not safe for me to get near her until I determine what extra measures I'll need to protect myself from her new powers," Bruce said reasonably. "And since her abilities work on women now as well as men, Batgirl and Black Canary aren't any better equipped than Nightwing or Robin to keep tabs on her. Selina, you're the only person I can trust that Ivy wouldn't _dare_ use her powers on."

"You've dealt with _Poison Ivy_ enough times, I'm sure you think you know what you're asking. But you don't. Bruce, you know Poison Ivy, you don't know Pammy. You don't know Pammy being 'friendly.' You _don't know_ what you're asking me to do."

"I do have some idea, Kitten, honestly. I also know that with Quinn in Arkham, Ivy is desperate for some human companionship. If you give a little, it could yield a lot in return. Maybe even the full story about Joker's death."

Selina sighed. "Desperate enough that if I do this, Ivy may well decide that we've been old friends all along and start visiting me . . . here!"

"Selina, Catman was in my study the other day. I don't think these people need the excuse of your friendship to drop in."

She permitted herself a laugh. "Well . . . maybe. If only to reinforce the lesson I taught her. But you owe me. Again. You already owed me for the Christmas party, remember?"

"I do remember," Bruce said hesitantly, "and there is a way I've been looking into to make it up to you."

"You have my attention," Selina answered with a naughty grin.

"With Joker gone forever, Cobblepot out of the game, Poison Ivy off my radar for the foreseeable future, and DEMON's presence in Gotham eliminated entirely, for the time being anyway, Batman's patrol duties are considerably shorter and the caseload considerably lighter," he said. "I was thinking of a new yacht, something less conspicuous than the typical fop boat. Something small . . . for an occasional weekend cruise, just for two. We could call it – the _Gatta_."

Selina caught her breath. "A _real_ weekend cruise?" she asked. "Not a cover story about Bruce Wayne in Tahiti when you're really down here defragging your hard drive?"

"Well, I'd want to keep tabs on the city while we're away," he said, "but yes, a real getaway."

"Wow," she said. "I thought you hated leaving Gotham for anything as trivial as 'fun'."

"I'm a little surprised myself, but Joker's death . . . while regrettable and completely unacceptable, did bring – some benefits," Bruce admitted.

Selina nodded. It couldn't have been easy for him to say that good came of a man's death, even Joker's. And this boat idea! "Well, when you put it like that," she said lightly, "shoe shopping with Ivy sounds almost bearable. Almost."

To be continued . . .


	7. Chapter 7

Ivy entered the lobby of Arkham Asylum, spotted the same woman behind the reception desk who had been there the last time, and knew this wasn't going to be easy.

Of course, it didn't really matter who the person guarding the front door was. Ivy was sure every employee had been thoroughly briefed on what had happened the last time she visited. Even that first time, the receptionist had said Ivy wasn't permitted to see Harley. It was only through a loophole that she'd been able to gain access, and that loophole was undoubtedly closed now.

Sure enough, the woman took one look at her and said, "You're not allowed to be here. Dr. Bartholomew instructed me to tell you that your visitation privileges have been indefinitely revoked for all Arkham patients."

Ivy narrowed her eyes. "I'm sure he did," she grumbled.

She was reluctantly willing to acknowledge that Bartholomew's orders weren't entirely unacceptable. The last time she'd seen Harley . . . well, it wasn't something she liked to think about. In fact it was a memory that had still haunted her two days after.

Ivy didn't need a repeat of that. She was too busy with the grand reopening for that kind of – distraction. It was probably for the best if she simply didn't come at all.

But Ivy felt confident that she could avoid a second incident like that. Obviously she'd underestimated the amount of time Harley would grieve for that laughing pile of manure, and then she'd made the mistake of losing her temper just a bit.

Certainly by now Harley had gotten over both the Joker's death and Ivy's little faux pas. Even if she hadn't, though, Ivy was prepared to overlook that and humor the girl.

And once that was out of the way, they could focus on the real reason for her visit. It was over a week since her confrontation with Selina, and by now she'd banished any slim hope that the other woman would call again. That left her with her original predicament, namely not having someone to talk to. Someone to bounce ideas off, to give their opinions about the newest features the Lounge would be offering . . . and all right, maybe to offer Ivy a bit of assurance that everything was going to work out. Harley had always been good at that.

Certainly she wasn't visiting because she felt badly about the last time. Not at all.

"What about the good doctor himself? Am I allowed to appeal to him directly?" Ivy asked.

"Dr. Bartholomew's orders also extend to every male employee here. Obviously that includes him," the receptionist said primly.

Ivy permitted herself a grim smile. The staff here was operating under a dangerous if understandable belief that her powers didn't work on women. Ivy knew this was no longer the case.

Even if she hadn't particularly been able to enjoy the discovery.

Unfortunately, she'd had very little opportunity to do further testing of her new abilities. She left the Rydbergii very rarely, which meant the only women she saw were her employees. Ivy had briefly considered trying to green one of them, but she'd decided not to. She suspected Raven and the others had returned to their jobs only because they believed they were safe from "greening". If she gave them any sign this was no longer the case, Ivy worried they would quit en masse. Penguin had warned very strongly against this, and anyway she had no intention of conducting endless job interviews.

Her only testing had been two random encounters with strange women on the sidewalk outside of the Rydbergii. Both women had been guarded at first, but within a few moments they'd become as friendly as if they'd known her for twenty years. These experiments didn't provide her with nearly the kind of information she needed, however, to figure out how to get the most efficient use out of her powers with women.

Besides, both conversations had been extremely uncomfortable reminders of Selina – how defenseless Ivy had been in the wake of her fury, and how alone it had made her feel when she realized Selina's warm wishes had been empty. Not like when Harley was with her, or Harvey. Harvey, who she'd never had to green except for one or two insignificant times in the beginning. Of course, then he had to go and screw everything up . . . mentally she shook her head. Why was she now thinking about HIM of all people?

"Is there something else you need?" the receptionist asked.

Ivy started, having become lost in her own thoughts. It would be a simple thing to take control of this self-important woman. Let Arkham know that none of its employees, male or female, were safe from her power. They would quickly realize that they had no hope of denying her what she demanded.

Yet she hesitated. She still didn't fully understand how to control her new powers. She still wasn't sure why the herbs she was taking increased her abilities – or for that matter, why overuse of the herbs could burn her powers out forever. That little tidbit of information from the woman at the magic shop had been especially disturbing.

And the doctors here weren't as completely defenseless as she liked them to be. Even something as simple as locking her out of the building could conceivably thwart her. It wasn't like her pheromones were so powerful they could shatter glass, after all.

But to be kept from Harley because of one mistake was inexcusable! If only she could _get_ to Dr. Bartholomew and make him understand!

Ivy paused. She'd been able to make Selina understand that what had happened had been a mistake. She'd avoided a great deal of pain not by greening Selina, but by talking to her and proving what she said was true.

She shrugged. If it worked on Catwoman . . .

"Look," she said to the receptionist. "I want to speak with Dr. Bartholomew. Now."

"As I explained a minute ago – "

"You couldn't possibly know this," Ivy went on, "but my powers affect women now. I could show you, if you like."

The receptionist didn't answer at first. Obviously finding out she wasn't as safe as she thought wasn't very pleasant. "You're bluffing," she finally said.

"I could take your memory of the next five minutes away if I wanted to," Ivy replied. "But I suppose your time is valuable, and my time is much, much more. Why don't you just work with the assumption that I'm telling the truth?"

The other woman didn't say anything.

"Now," Ivy continued, "I could just use my powers to compel you to give me what I want. But I've decided to try something different today. I'm told it gets results. We'll both talk it over like rational adults– and then you'll give me what I want. Otherwise I might decide it's simpler just to make you my new best friend. Now, how does that sound?"

A minute later, the receptionist was on the phone to tell Dr. Bartholomew he had a visitor that couldn't wait, and Ivy was pleased with herself. It was true, you really did catch more flies with a pitcher plant than you did with a Venus flytrap.

* * *

Jenna Leibowitz was finding it harder to read potential-investors than she'd imagined. There was fish-faced banker that looked like the very air in the room didn't agree with him. It was hard to tell if his disapproving pucker as he looked through her business plan meant he didn't like the numbers, didn't like the printing job, or just wasn't comfortable in his chair. There was a famous restaurateur that looked like one of those mopey dogs with the sagging jowls. And there was the advisor from Morgan Stanley who kept touching his tie right over his stomach. Jenna wasn't sure if it was a meaningless fidget or if he had indigestion. The rest seemed to be waiting for some cue from those three.

Jenna straightened the cuffs of her blouse while she waited for these potential investors to finish reading. She couldn't tell what anyone was thinking until Mopey Dog asked a question.

"Let me get this straight," he pronounced, setting down the market analysis. "You want to go into head-to-head competition with Cobblepot and his Iceberg Lounge?"

"Not exactly," Jenna corrected him. "You see, the Iceberg Lounge is currently closed. It has been for weeks, and there's no sign of when it will be reopening."

"Closed for renovations, I'm told," Fishface pointed out. "That happens every year."

"Yes, but not for this length of time," Jenna pointed out. "Usually it's for a week or less."

"That tells me the new Iceberg is going to be bigger and flashier than ever. Which is not what a fledgling nightclub wants to go up against."

"But if we open first—" Jenna began eagerly, thinking of the stronghold she would have on all the former Iceberg clients before Ivy even opened her doors.

"If you open first you'll be outshown the minute Cobblepot reopens," the jowly restaurateur pointed out. "A 'hot new nightclub' has the lifespan of a mayfly, Ms. Leibowitz. It's one in a hundred that keeps going for more than a year, and that one is the Iceberg."

"It won't be called the Iceberg actually," she said. "My sources tell me the new name will be the Rydbergii Lounge." The looks on the faces of the men and women in front of her told Jenna that nobody understood the reference. She herself had to look it up. That alone should demonstrate how out of touch the new Iceberg would be with the market (and the world at large), but Jenna had a different point to make. "Rydbergii," she said, pronouncing it with a foreign and affected lilt to emphasize its unsuitability. "Per Axel Rydberg, a botanist from over a hundred years ago. The scientific name for western poison ivy is named after him."

Looks of comprehension began to dawn in their eyes, and Jenna smiled. At last it was all falling into place. She took some projections off an easel next to her, and replaced them with a blown-up photograph. "My sources also tell me that Oswald Cobblepot has been replaced by the new proprietor, Poison Ivy."

As if the investors in the room needed to be reminded of Poison Ivy's mental instability, the photograph showed Ivy in a straitjacket and being dragged out of a courtroom. Jenna had found it in the Gotham Post archives.

"Before I continue," Jenna said, "I'd like to ask each of you to take a moment and think about what you know of this woman. Maybe you had an unlucky encounter with her." In fact, she'd made a point of inviting several men who Ivy had targeted in the past. "Or maybe you've just seen her on the TV. Whatever you do know, ask yourself what kind of person she is."

Jenna spent her moment reflecting on what this meant for her if she succeeded. She already had sold her Starbucks franchise and earmarked all of her savings for this project, but it would take a great deal more money for "Jenna's" to be on a scale with the Iceberg Lounge, whatever its name was. That was the reason for this meeting. If even a half-dozen of these people, some of whom had successfully invested in other nightclubs and all of whom were looking for the hot new thing to profit from, she'd have both the money and the credibility she needed.

Jenna had provided each of the invitees with a detailed prospectus of her plans for Gotham's newest nightclub. She had the location picked out, and she'd consulted with one of Gotham's leading architectural firms. She'd laid the foundation with hard numbers, because these people needed something concrete to throw their money at. But she'd saved her biggest selling point for last, and it was the picture next to her. When they understood that the competition was at best a paper tiger, and at worst an unstable sociopath certain to self-destruct, they'd run to fill the void that Ivy was about to create.

"How reliable are these sources of yours?" one woman asked before Jenna could go on.

She suppressed a flash of irritation – these were investors, after all, and they were bound to be annoying at times. Although she'd (perhaps unreasonably) hoped they would become more pliable once she'd played her trump card. She glanced again at the picture of Ivy straining furiously against her restraints, and tried to look as sane and reasonable as possible in contrast.

"Extremely reliable," Jenna said. "Any of you can go there and find out for yourselves. Poison Ivy has never been known for her subtlety.

"I'll lay out what you all know already. Poison Ivy is a homicidal maniac and a convicted criminal. She persists in the delusional belief that plants are more important than people," she said with a sneer. "She altered her own genetic structure, and it turned her skin green." _Even if she insists it's alabaster_, she added to herself.

"Some of you may also know that Ivy is a vengeful harpy. A self-important, narcissistic bitch with an acidic personality that can pit concrete. Other people are only on this planet to amuse her."

Jenna smiled. "In short, she's possibly the least-qualified person in the city to be running a nightclub, a hospitality business of any kind, and for that matter any endeavor requiring non-combative contact with the public at large."

"You're assuming Cobblepot isn't still running the show. Behind the scenes, that is."

"My sources indicate the renovations have been quite extensive," Jenna assured them. "Ivy is erasing every sign of Cobblepot's stamp on the place, and replacing it with her own signature, as if she was a new pharaoh chiseling out the old one's name from the statuary. Do you really believe that the Penguin would allow that?"

She chuckled as she worked the room. "No, more likely that Ivy has him under her thrall. Every man in this room – in this city really – either knows what that's like, or he's heard about it from someone else. And that's just one more reason why the new Lounge will fail under her management. What man would dare enter the establishment? She might slip something in his drink, or simply use her powers to put the entire room under her control."

Her biggest fish, Bruce Wayne, had declined her invitation. Her research had indicated he would be one of the men most receptive to her pitch, having been "greened" along with the Wayne Foundations' entire board of directors in one scandalous incident. Another sizeable fish, however, was front row, center seat, and it was he who spoke now.

"You're right," Randolph Larraby III said. "I've been victimized by Poison Ivy. I remember what it was like. And there are at least a half-dozen men in here who can say the same. But nobody went to the Iceberg Lounge because they enjoyed Cobblepot either, with his ridiculous vocabulary and his 'nouveau riche' pretensions. And Poison Ivy certainly has assets . . . which a man can at least enjoy from across the room."

A few men chuckled with him.

"They went," Larraby continued, "because the Lounge had notoriety. The owner was a prominent theme criminal who catered to the most infamous lunatics in Gotham, and yet it was still high-class. People like us, going to the Iceberg was like going to the zoo. Real, live dangerous animals, all in captivity. Dinner and a show. Catwoman, if you were really lucky. And Poison Ivy, she's one of them. Ms. Lieberman, without the Gotham Rogues, you've got just another nightclub, and those are a dime a dozen. What makes you think they'll choose your club over hers?"

Jenna didn't bother to correct him on her name. "Actually, I'm glad you mentioned Catwoman. I trust most of you saw her off-Broadway show Cat-Tales?" She drew one last sheet of paper from her prepared materials. "I found this on the Internet. It's a quote from one of her monologues. 'The men of Gotham After Dark, who allegedly can't resist her, have a little expression for Poison Ivy, ungallant though it may be to repeat it – there are women you need two, three glasses of wine before an evening with them is palatable, then there are four-dirty-martini women, there are a-shot-of-Jack-Daniels-and-a-snort-of-cocaine women . . . and then there's _Poison Ivy_.'"

The superficial meaning was clear to many of those gathered: those who knew Ivy best, the coveted rogues whose presence would make or break an Icebergesque nightclub, did not consider the prospect of spending time with her appealing without massive doses of chemical pheromones. The deeper meaning, however, Jenna was less certain she could convey. It was a matter of compare-and-contrast.

Catwoman's stage show had sold out. She embodied everything that drew the public to the costumed criminals of Gotham. She was colorful, dangerous, sexy, illicit, thrilling—and at the same time safe enough that no one felt their _lives_ were in peril just being in the same room with her. In short, she was everything Poison Ivy was not.

Ivy was no less beautiful, but in almost every other way she was Catwoman's exact opposite. What Jenna really wanted was for her would-be investors to put themselves into the mindset of the Gotham rogues. If Bruce Wayne had come, it would have been easy. His very presence would be a reminder without her saying a word. Since Selina Kyle began dating him, most of those in the room had met her in a social context, or at least been in the same room with her at some gala or fundraiser. So they'd tasted that vicarious thrill, an actual Gotham rogue in the room, and you could compliment her shoes or remark how much better the band was than last year. That's what her club had to offer that Ivy's would not. Selina Kyle was a draw. If you were Riddler or Two-Face and she asked you to go to a party, you'd go, wouldn't you? Unlike Selina Kyle, Ivy was unpopular with her own kind. Unlike Selina Kyle, Ivy's image was quite unmarketable.

"If they had no other choices," Jenna said tentatively, "they'd probably don their noseplugs and go to the Rydbergii Lounge. But trust me, they're looking for an excuse to go anywhere else that will serve them. If this club will open its doors to them, they'll come. And where they go, the tourists will follow. And let's face it, the Iceberg Lounge was a bit antiquated. Oswald's little dinner club was twenty years behind the times. When word gets out on how hip, how trendy our place will be, the twenty-somethings will flock there. I'm telling you, we can't miss with this. It'll be . . . _catworthy_."

* * *

"I can't say I appreciate the manner in which you arranged this interview," Dr. Bartholomew told Ivy as she sat across from his desk. "I made it quite clear that there was nothing for you and I to discuss, so I can only assume you made some kind of threat."

"Of course not, Doctor," Ivy said flatly. "I simply made a very persuasive argument."

"Hah! I imagine you did."

"What's she doing here?" Ivy asked, directing an unfriendly look at the other occupant of the doctor's office.

Dr. Bartholomew casually glanced at the woman standing to his left. "Oh, you remember Doctor Fitzsimmons, of course. She's helping with Harleen's treatment, and naturally I felt she should sit in."

"You just want a woman on your side," Ivy replied. "And her name is Harley."

He smiled grimly. "It's just a precaution, Pamela. All orders concerning Harleen Quinzell require both our signatures, to prevent any – coercion. And you know perfectly well that Harleen is the name she was born with."

"She _likes_ to be called Harley, Doctor," Ivy said, irritated by his manner, and yet secretly amused by his smug certainty that Dr. Fitzsimmons was safe from "coercion". "She's already depressed. She doesn't need someone calling her a name she doesn't like."

"She's depressed because of the Joker's death, Pamela. She needs to understand that that life is over, and that she can resume her old life as Harleen. What she _doesn't_ need are reminders of her time as Patient J's sidekick, and that most certainly includes you," Dr. Bartholomew told her. "I was convinced of that even before that incident you incited last week."

Ivy's stomach clenched at the memory. "I didn't know that would happen," she grumbled.

"But you knew you were forbidden from seeing her. And you did anyway. I don't know what you said to her, Harleen wouldn't tell us, but she was extremely agitated and had to be sedated. Harleen has to focus on her own treatment, not cater to your selfish needs."

"My–" Ivy stopped. She had to get a grip on her temper. She couldn't yield to temptation and green them both any more than she could at the reception desk. The short-term win would only lead to long-term disaster. "I know why she – overreacted. It won't happen again."

"And why did she _overreact_?" Dr. Fitzsimmons asked, speaking up for the first time.

"It was private," Ivy replied.

"That's what we're talking about, Pamela," Dr. Bartholomew told her. "Harleen needs our help. If you were really her friend, you would help her by staying away."

"I disagree," Ivy said. "I can help her more by seeing her."

"Why?"

She paused for a moment. She had come to Arkham thinking about how Harley could help her, not the other way around. "Because she trusts me," Ivy finally said. "With Joker gone, I'm the only one left she does. She sure as hell doesn't trust any of you. You're no better than the police."

"She'll come to understand that we have her best interests at heart," Doctor Fitzsimmons said. "It's not surprising that we've started slowly, and we're going to overcome that in time."

"Slowly, huh? Let me guess," Ivy said shrewdly. "She still hasn't told you a thing about what happened that night at the Iceberg."

"We don't have to tell you anything she told either of us in confidence," Dr. Bartholomew replied. "In fact, doctor-client privilege strictly prohibits my doing so."

"Uh-huh," Ivy said sarcastically. "Fine. You don't have to admit it, we both know she hasn't told you anything. Have the guts to admit it to yourselves and extrapolate what it means. She doesn't trust you and she's not going to. So don't hold your breath waiting for her to open up, it's not going to happen. If she'll open up to anyone, it'll be me. She's been crying on my shoulder for years. Look Doctor, she's surrounded by reminders of her criminal past here. It's Arkham, for Gaia's sake. What does one more matter, if it means getting through to her quicker?"

Doctor Bartholomew looked at her. "And why should I believe you?"

"You said it yourself. I'm selfish. She's no fun for me if she's a crying wreck huddled in a corner," Ivy pointed out. "Besides, you don't need to look in your notes to know how much I hated the Joker. I've told you for years that the best thing for Harley was to get her away from him. Well now she IS away from him. I want her to realize that she's better for it. I WANT her to realize that psychotic hyena isn't worth the tears."

"Even if I agreed with you," he said, "I'm not convinced you won't just upset her again. She's had too many bad days for me to gamble her well-being on your promises."

"Doctor . . . please," Ivy said, almost choking on the word. It sounded almost like begging. "I don't like seeing her this way. I want her to get better. I –I promise that if she has another incident like the last time, I won't ask to see her again." She said this more confidently, knowing there wouldn't be any more problems. All she had to do was avoid any suggestion that it was Harley's fault he died.

Perhaps one day Harley would take pride in the part she played in the extermination of the worst homicidal lunatic in the city's history, but obviously she wasn't ready yet.

Dr. Fitzsimmons leaned forward and murmured something Ivy couldn't catch into Dr. Bartholomew's ear. Whatever it was, his expression said he didn't like it.

"Your time with her," he finally said, "would have to be monitored. We can't be surprised by another fit of hysteria."

Ivy blinked. It – worked?

"Also," he continued, "_if_ we would allow you to resume visitation, that privilege will be contingent on her opening up in session as a result. If she does not begin taking an active role in her recovery, I'll assume you're not getting through to her and your privileges will be revoked."

Ivy didn't respond at first. She was still incredulous that she'd succeeded. Truth be told, she so rarely tried to get her way with men any more without using pheromones, she hadn't really believed she could pull this off. "How often will I be allowed to see her?" Ivy finally thought to ask.

"Once a week," Doctor Bartholomew said after thinking for a moment. "Thirty minutes. More, perhaps, if she gets better. As Doctor Fitzsimmons has pointed out, she needs to get better," he acknowledged, "before she can think about starting her life over."

Ivy nodded. She was a little surprised how important this was to her.

She supposed she needed someone to talk to even more than she realized.

* * *

"A WIT MEETS TOON," Edward Nygma murmured, subconsciously making an anagram for 'no time to waste.' "No time to waste, no time to waste, no time to waste."

It would be his best crime spree ever. He could operate in the style of his fellow rogues. Taking inspiration from the very pages of the Gotham Post, he could torment the Dark Knight with the most tantalizing clues all tied to the distortions that ridiculous tabloid offered the public as Killer Croc, Scarecrow, Catwoman, Two-Face, Poison Ivy, Mad Hatter . . . He had ranked them all, assigning a mathematical value to the degree the Gotham Post distorted their appearance, personality and methodology. He could now proceed through the list, one by one, devising clues drawn from -

"I was then commanded to take the life of the Deputy Interior Minister of Uzbekistan. I strangled him as he relieved himself in a public restroom after he left work for the day. I was told it was a message. What message, or to whom, I did not ask. My place is but to follow orders."

Eddie had wrestled with the question of whether or not to include the Joker in his rankings. True, he was dead, but they didn't necessarily have to be alive for the riddles to work. What mattered was how much attention the Gotham Post had "lavished" on them, and the Joker had received as much ink as –

"I disemboweled him thoroughly, and in such a manner that, as he was under criminal investigation, the police believed it a suicide."

Eventually he'd decided to leave the Joker out. Since his murder, Eddie had gotten used to not seeing him. Why ruin it by staring at his photographs?

"The first time I used that kind of poison, I injected too little and I was forced to return to the hospital hours later. I learned from my mistake, however, and in this case she died within minutes."

Eddie threw down his pencil and stood up. He simply couldn't concentrate while listening to a professional assassin verbally recite his resume!

He opened the door of the room he was using and leaned his head out. "Er, Greg? Does he have to do this now?"

Greg Brady waved for Eddie to come in. "Hey, Edward. Meet Il'Nar. Il'Nar, you're going to be staying in Gotham for a while, so you might as well get to know Edward Nygma, also known as the Riddler."

Il'Nar regarded Nygma flatly. "I have read of you," he said. "You are an enemy of He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken." He looked again at Greg. "I was told I was the first to be named to this post."

"He Whose Name Must Not Be Spoken?" Eddie asked. "WOMEN SPOOK BATMEN, HE ENTHUSES?"

"Close enough," Greg said. "Il'Nar, first thing I tell guys here, here in Gotham we just call him Batman."

"But to pronounce – "

"It takes too long, Il'Nar. Just Batman. Okay?"

" . . . Very well."

"And Mr. Nygma here doesn't work for us. He's just renting space."

"Renting?" Il'Nar asked, clearly confused.

"Well, ever since my last group found themselves in Blackgate for the Joker's murder," Greg said, a brief pained glance crossing his face, "this place has been pretty empty. Eddie's temporarily renting a room while he thinks up his next riddle."

Il'Nar looked at Eddie again. "He does not have a hideout of his own?"

Eddie's face transformed, expressing the most violent revulsion. "What comes of the untended hideout when the Prince of Puzzlers is incarcerated? Since the defection of _my darling_ _Doris_," he pronounced these syllables with controlled disgust, "I have been without a henchwench. There was no one to tend to the hideout while I was in Arkham. In my absence, something crawled into the air conditioner and died."

"Doris?"

"Ex-girlfriend," Greg supplied. "You'll learn all this as you go."

"Quite," Eddie said sourly. "The air is unbreathable. I'm airing it out. With luck, maybe I can go back by July."

"He's not serious about July," Greg assured Il'Nar. "Anyway, why don't you just fill me in on why they sent you?"

Il'Nar looked abashed. "I was given the task of killing the newspaper reporter Clark Kent."

Eddie blinked. Even in Arkham he'd heard about Kent and President Leiverman. There was enough animosity there to make Batman and Riddler look like friends by comparison. And the person in charge of LionCorp since Lionel Leiverman was elected president was the daughter of the man whose League of Assassins sent Il'Nar to off Kent? …It was the kind of stupidity Eddie would expect from and empty suit like Ra's al Ghul, but not from Superman's great foe Lionel Leiverman.

"And you failed," Greg said.

"Yes. I – I do not understand how. Neither did my superiors. They agreed, he should have died. They were unable to determine what I did wrong, and that is the only reason I am alive today," Il'Nar said.

"So this assignment is your punishment," Eddie said.

"Yes," Il'Nar said coldly.

"All right, well, I won't hold it against you, Il'Nar," Greg told him. "I do have one more question, though. You're the first DEMON agent to arrive in weeks. Why now? Do you know anything?"

Il'Nar hesitated. "I do not know," he eventually admitted. "Sometimes there is talk when someone is assigned to a new post for a special purpose, but in the case of the city of He Who Must Not – " He caught a look from Greg. "Of Batman," he said, "it is widely felt that the less said, the better."

Eddie whistled. "Other side of the world from Gotham, and these boys are more scared of him than the crooks right here."

"Eddie," Greg said. Then he stopped. "Il'Nar, could you give us a minute?"

"Of course, My Lord."

Greg waited. "Outside, I mean."

"Oh, yes . . . I have not offended? You will give me the best kills, right?"

"Uh, yeah, I'll look out for you," Greg said, and sighed.

When they were alone, Greg turned back to Nigma. "They're always stiff like this when they first show up. I always tried to loosen them up, have them hang out with the other boys, do some 'recon' at the Iceberg Lounge. But Il'Nar is the only one now, and I hear the Lounge is shut down for some potted plants and a few coats of green paint. You think you could, I don't know, show Il'Nar around Gotham?"

"You want me to play tour guide for your visiting backstabber?" Eddie asked, flabbergasted.

"It's just I'm busy here," Greg said.

"There's not exactly a point to renting space if I can't actually _use_ it, you know."

"I'll give you the space for free. And I'll owe you one. Just for tomorrow, take him out for a beer or something."

Eddie frowned. Free. REEF. Free wasn't such a bad word, considering it was money problems that brought him here and not something more upscale. Which was why he was also a bit light on henchmen right now . . .

"You give me use of your boys to drop my riddles off at the Batsignal," Eddie said reluctantly, "and you've got a deal."

"No problem," Greg said. "I'll let Il'Nar know."

"Actually, wait, before you do – " Eddie went back into the room he was using, and came out again with two newspaper cutouts. "Now that he's gone, which of these pictures do you think is further off on Catwoman?"

* * *

Ra's al-Ghul gratefully terminated the connection after he felt he'd given Ulstarn time (more than enough time) to conclude his formal, meandering farewell. These Metropolis communications had always been a chore ever since he sent Ulstarn there, but now ever since the incident in Gotham . . .

That had created a headache on multiple levels, Ra's thought sourly. There was the obvious impact, of course. Twenty men imprisoned in Gotham on murder charges. The posts at Gotham AND Bludhaven stripped bare of men, messengers and support staff. It was a very small number of men in terms of DEMON's global operations, but their replacements had to be sent gradually so as to avoid notice by the Detective. It was most inefficient.

The thornier problem, however, was that no one was exactly sure how this had happened. The reports from Gr'oriBr'di were surprisingly vague, although considering it happened under his watch, he would be understandably reluctant to explain how he was to blame.

Ulstarn, on the other hand, was all too eager to explain how Gr'oriBr'di was to blame. The former head of the Gotham operation had begun sending him daily reports on his "investigation" into the Iceberg affair. Ra's could not fail to notice that Ulstarn nurtured a passionate jealousy of the man who took his post in Gotham. While he at times encouraged competition among his lieutenants, this was not one of those times. He suspected that in the absence of evidence to the contrary, Ulstarn had begun making up facts out of whole cloth.

The situation was highly intolerable, and would continue to be so until Ra's found out EXACTLY what had happened in Gotham. He would have to send someone there – NOT Ulstarn, who had offered several times over.

The only sensible solution was to send Talia.

The timing, at least, was perfect. A month ago his daughter might have claimed she could not leave her duties at LionCorp. Now that she had driven the company into bankruptcy, however, she had no reason to refuse him.

Ra's still didn't understand how that had been allowed to happen. For all her good qualities, Talia was a woman, and only a marginally competent one at that. A woman could not be expected to run a corporation of such size and complexity. He had naturally assumed that she would be the nominal head while the real running of the company was left in the hands of talented underlings.

Talia, however, hadn't realized this. Instead, stubborn girl that she was, she had tried to run LionCorp herself. The result was inevitable: ruin.

Ra's al Ghul rubbed his chin. While the company's collapse was unfortunate, it wasn't without possibilities. Wayne Enterprises now owned much of LionCorp's former assets. If Talia could convince the Detective that she had _intentionally_ run the company into the ground in order to lay it at his feet, he might look upon her more favorably. However she'd botched her pursuit of him in the past, the Detective could hardly refuse him an heir then.

"Ubu," Ra's suddenly spoke. "Have my daughter contacted at once. She is to speak with me and no other, then leave for Gotham at once." He thought for a moment. With Talia getting the real facts of the situation . . . "And if we receive any word from Ulstarn in the interim, I am in conference with my advisers from… Tunisia and not to be disturbed."

It was most satisfying when he was able to resolve several problems with one masterstroke.

To be continued . . .


	8. Chapter 8

Edward Nygma was starting to have bad flashbacks to Midnight Cowboy.

Any moment now, he expected to find himself banging on some taxicab's hood in the middle of an intersection and shouting, "We're walking here! WHERE LAW, REEKING!"

It wasn't that he'd been asked to give someone a tour of Gotham. It was that he'd been asked to give a tour of Gotham to a professional killer from the other side of the world who barely spoke and who dressed like a waiter in a Pakistani cafe.

Greg Brady had informed him that DEMON minions needed some "loosening up" when they first came to Gotham. Eddie suspected the only thing that would loosen up the taciturn Il'Nar would be an injection of horse tranquilizers.

Still, he was trying to make the best of it. He'd taken Il'Nar to see police headquarters first. In most cities that wouldn't be considered a tourist attraction, and in fact anyone giving more than a two-second glance to a police station in, say, Metropolis would probably be labeled a terrorist.

In Gotham, however, GCPD headquarters was known as the location of the GIANT SLAB, the Batsignal, and for that reason it was a part of every tour bus's route. And since Il'Nar was, in more ways than one, an "out-of-towner", a tour bus proved to be the easiest and cheapest way to accomplish Eddie's mission of "showing him around." Now when the time came, Eddie could entrust Il'Nar with the delivery of his precious riddles, knowing they would be brought to the correct location. Best of all, he could let the tour guide do all the work.

Which was good, because Eddie didn't know what he could say to the man without offending him. For all he knew, NOT speaking might be just as offensive. And Eddie made it a point never to offend professional hitmen.

So at first, he was quite stymied by Greg's request, rent break not withstanding. But eventually Eddie recalled that Greg normally sent his newest minion to the Iceberg Lounge to not only "loosen up", but to get the lay of the land. It wouldn't do for Il'Nar to, say, assume that Blake and Selina were some kind of "team" because they both had cat motifs, and to then suggest this out loud, within earshot of either.

It was Eddie's responsibility, therefore, to be the man's tutor. His etiquette coach. He would be like the Sherpas who guided climbers up Mt. Everest. Because there was no question that surviving the Gotham underworld was a lot more dangerous than some mountain.

He'd done it once before, for Bruce Wayne when he first started dating Selina. Jervis and Harvey had helped, of course, but Eddie felt confident he could conduct Il'Nar's Rogue Orientation on his own. (Of course, the Wayne thing had led to Selina shoving Eddie into her closet, but Eddie chose not to think about that.)

"First thing you've got to understand, Il'Nar," Eddie told him while their guide was waxing poetic about the Moxton Building, "is that some people like me, they're all right. And some others, well, they're not."

"Like - you?" Il'Nar asked, obviously not getting it. For all Eddie knew, Il'Nar thought he meant "men who wear hats".

"The Rogues. The ones on the A-list. You know, the ones who wear costumes, commit the big crimes, tangle with Batman."

"Ah," Il'Nar said. "The enemies of He Who Shall Not –"

"I think Greg told you not to - "

Il'Nar narrowed his eyes at him.

"Call him whatever you like," Eddie said quickly. "The point is, most Rogues are a little - unpredictable."

"I see," Il'Nar replied.

"No, you don't. Not until you see them in action, anyway. Look, just as a primer? Catwoman's good people. So is Two-Face. Scarecrow, well, I'd stay away from him. And you DEFINITELY want to stay away from Poison Ivy. Then there's . . ." Eddie stopped and grimaced. "Just to be clear on Ivy, if you ever encounter a woman who smells like the Amazon jungle, grab your nose and run the other way."

Damn that Pammy. If she hadn't gotten to Penguin and taken over the Iceberg, he wouldn't be needing to have this bizarrely awkward conversation. It would serve her right when she reopened the club and nobody showed up.

Il'Nar looked oddly hesitant. "What of - Roxy Rock-et? I heard tales of her before I came to this city."

Eddie started. He'd heard tales of ROXY?

If she was the one they talked about back at DEMON HQ, then those stories about the Cadaver and Black Canary were suddenly making more sense.

* * *

Talia checked herself in the mirror. Her hair was perfect, her makeup even more so. Her attire was exquisite. She was ready to be taken to her beloved at his office, and this time she would be successful.

She glanced at her watch. It was ten in the morning. Why was it so difficult for most women to look as good as this at this hour?

Well, she could wait for a little while. Beloved would not be leaving his office for another few hours.

She told herself that it was because she'd had a long flight, and she wished to be rested when she set eyes on her beloved. It was most certainly NOT because of the looks she'd received in the hotel lobby and in the elevator. What was of the opinion of a few godless Gothamites? So what if her photograph had been plastered across the pages of newspapers while she was excoriated as the reason for the downfall of LionCorp?

These fools thought she cared! Lioncorp had never been more than a means to an end. The fate of the company and its workers had never meant anything to her. She had taken the job because - well, because her father told her to, he'd taken pains to arrange it with Lionel Leiverman. Who was she to refuse?

But once installed there, Talia had understood that the company was a tool for her use, something to make her beloved understand. She went head to head with his company _on his home ground_. When she emerged victorious, he would recognize how talented, how successful she was, and . . .

Talia paused and shook her head slightly. No . . . no, silly her, what was she thinking? That was never what she'd wanted, that was what her FATHER had wanted. HER plan had been to undermine Lioncorp from the very beginning, to singlehandedly engineer the downfall of one of the world's biggest corporations so she might lay it at her beloved's feet! He had to understand that, he HAD to.

And now her father called her and suggested that she say this very thing to Beloved, as if it were not true, some sort of cover story that he had just concocted for her. When in fact, this had been Talia's mission all along.

Really, it had been.

Her father had also gone on about some important mission regarding the arrest and imprisonment of his men in Gotham and Bludhaven. Apparently his handpicked lieutenant, this Gr'oriBr'di who was so special that he deserved two apostrophes, had failed to account satisfactorily for this development. She'd been sent to investigate.

Her father had done this because, he said, "now she had nothing better to do".

Just for that, and for his hurtful suggestion that her tenure at Lioncorp had been a failure but that she might as well make the best of it, she would not visit this Gr'oriBr'di until tomorrow, or perhaps the day after that! That would show him.

As for the uninformed morons in the lobby, if some people she didn't even know looked at her as if she were an object of _scorn_, it didn't bother her in the slightest. Everything had gone as planned, and she reveled in the sense of being this close to victory. Not even the she-cat witch could defeat her now, for it wasn't the she-cat who bankrupted Lioncorp to lay it at Beloved's feet now was it.

So there was really no reason why she shouldn't leave right now.

Unbidden, Talia thought of the couple in the elevator with her. The man had whispered something to the woman. She wondered what he'd said.

She had time before she left. Maybe she'd put CNN on.

* * *

A good reporter, like a good detective, always notices details others might dismiss as insignificant and, depending on their perspicacity, can draw astonishingly insightful – or disastrously absurd – conclusions. The first thing that caught Clark Kent's eye was the name along the side of the yacht. "The _Gatta_?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"What do you think?" Bruce said.

"Does that make it the Catboat?" Clark joked.

Bruce glowered at him.

"Okay, okay, I like it," he admitted. "Although it's not what I was expecting. I pictured something - "

"Obnoxiously vulgar and pointlessly extravagant?"

"Bigger, I was going to say. But yeah, that too." Clark boarded the motor yacht. "Don't get me wrong, I probably couldn't afford this on two years' salary. But I would have figured you buying the biggest, showiest boat you could find. And then you'd buy a Lamborghini and a plane."

Bruce frowned. That was the image he'd worked hard to cultivate for years, the mega-fop who bought things for the purpose of reminding everyone how much money he had. Just because Clark knew the real Bruce Wayne didn't make him unaware of the public perception he cultivated.

Still, it somehow bothered him that the _Gatta_ was being lumped together with all those other purchases as if it was merely 'Fop cover', part of the playboy pose, as if it was…

No, it bothered him because . . . "Actually, I did think about a bigger boat, at first," Bruce admitted as he followed Clark on deck. He hadn't shown it to Selina yet. He'd wanted to wait until after Clark and Lois's surprisingly uneventful two-week stay in Gotham, which was to end tomorrow. "I had promised Selina I would get something we could use for an occasional weekend cruise, just the two of us. And when I got to the dealership, I saw this - vulgar cliché of a megayacht called the _Dahlia_. A floating mansion."

"Like Trump's _Christina_?"

"Twelve feet longer, actually. And I thought how it was exactly the kind of thing 'Bruce Wayne' would buy. I asked the dealer for a tour. Told myself that it would look strange for 'the Playboy' not to look at the biggest monstrosity at the marina."

Clark nodded. "So what stopped you?"

"It's not the boat I wanted," Bruce said after a moment. "I hated the thing, everything about it, on its own and what it represented. I intended this to be a gift for Selina. Because our lives have reached a point where I can leave Gotham for a couple days without compromising the Mission."

"Because of the Joker," Clark said.

Bruce frowned. "I don't like saying that something good has come out of a man's death, but I can't deny that his – _absence _has made Gotham a little safer. There are other factors - Harley Quinn isn't going to be leaving Arkham any time soon, and Poison Ivy is distracted with this new insanity at the Iceberg, Ra's al Ghul's operation here was completely decimated, and Cobblepot's underground activities are floundering - but those won't last. The Joker's passing, though, that's permanent.

"But anyway" he went on, "If I'd bought the _Dahlia_, it wouldn't have been a gift any more; it wouldn't have been for us. It would have become ABOUT the Mission, just another prop to reaffirm the fop image."

Clark privately felt that if Bruce was willing to admit that his life had changed to the extent, if he could draw that kind of distinction between the man and the mission, then he could certainly start entertaining the notion of marrying Selina some day. Clark was extremely happy being married to Lois, and as far as he could see, the depth of Bruce's feelings for Selina was no less than what Clark felt for his wife. He wanted his friend to know the same satisfaction and contentment.

When Clark had raised the possibility near the start of his visit, however, Bruce had slammed the door with the death-glaring monosyllabic ferocity only Batman could manage. Yes, he was happy with Selina; yes, he expected their relationship to last for a long time. But marriage wasn't something he was interested in. It wasn't something he _needed_ to be happy. And he absolutely would not entertain advice or interference on the subject of his private life from any friend or ally, no matter how well-intentioned.

Bruce had a pessimistic streak, and Clark had briefly wondered if his friend was, on some level, afraid that taking the step of marriage would invite some kind of corresponding misfortune. He decided, however, that this was simply one of those things that Wayne Manor, Bristol and Kent Farm, Smallville would always see differently.

At any rate, Bruce had been _very_ firm during their dinner at d'Annunzio's, and Clark hadn't mentioned the "M" word again.

Plus he'd asked Lois to raise the subject with Selina, and she'd made it perfectly clear afterwards that one attempt had proved more than enough humiliation for her.

"I'm sure she'll love it then," Clark said diplomatically, and left it at that.

But as they made their way into one of the staterooms, Clark had another question. "Why did you just invite me to see this? Why not Lois?"

"I told you, it's a surprise for Selina. If the three of us went somewhere without her, she'd be suspicious."

"Yeah, but you also said you promised Selina you'd buy a new boat, so it can't be THAT much of a surprise. Is there another reason?"

After a second or two, Bruce nodded. "Something happened at the office today before I left. I wanted to be able to talk about it with someone before I told Selina."

"What?"

"Talia al Ghul paid a visit."

"Oh, boy," Clark sighed. Like almost everyone else in Metropolis, Clark was well acquainted with "Talia Head". Lioncorp was the city's biggest employer, and ever since Lionel Leiverman had appointed a mystery woman with little experience to run the company, the press had closely followed her tenure. And of course, thanks to his own past with both Leiverman and DEMON, Superman had kept a close eye on her as well. By the time she ran the company into the ground, Talia was one of the most reviled women in the city's history.

"She claimed," Bruce said with a sneer, "that she bankrupted the company on purpose. For me, she said. I threw her out."

Clark nodded slowly. "Not to sound like I'm defending her, but is there a chance that she's telling the truth? Some of her actions as CEO would make more sense if her intention was to drive the company under."

"She's not," Bruce told him. "In Gotham, at least, she was definitely trying to compete with me. Trying to prove she was a woman on my level. Instead she just proved her incompetence. But frankly, if she WAS telling the truth, that would be unforgivable. A substantial percentage of Lioncorp employees are going to lose their jobs because there isn't a place for them at WayneTech. Lioncorp's failure hurts Metropolis, the American economy, and a lot of investors who thought it was a strong corporation run by competent professionals.

"Talia would have caused all that damage, sacrificed all those jobs, to give me some twisted 'gift', because she's still obsessed with me. And she actually thought I'd thank her for that." Bruce shook his head in disgust.

"Okay," Clark said, "I understand all that. But I'm sure Selina wouldn't be upset because Talia came to your office."

"She wouldn't be," Bruce agreed. "The problem is that Selina had a hold on Talia as long as she was in charge of Lioncorp. Talia couldn't go on harassing me without public embarrassment she couldn't afford in her position as CEO. Now that Lioncorp is history, her return was inevitable. I'm sure Selina was expecting this as much as I was, but I'm still not looking forward to breaking the news."

"So what, this is a chance for you to find the right way to tell her?" Clark asked.

"There IS no right way. I just needed to talk with someone about it first." His first choice would have been Dick, but Dick had always disapproved of his past entanglements with Talia, and Bruce suspected he wouldn't be very sympathetic.

Clark just chuckled. "Well, you took care of her once before. I'm sure the two of you can think of something else," he said.

Bruce shook his head. "Of course we will," he said, as if that was perfectly obvious. "I just wish Selina didn't have to put up with her interference again. When I… let Talia believe what she wanted to all those years ago, I knew there would eventually be consequences, but just for myself. I never dreamed there would be a Selina one day that had to put up with the fallout too. I hurt her, Clark. I never meant to but I hurt her and she deserves better than that. Anyway, so you can tell Lois you got the grand tour, this is the galley. It has…"

Clark was reeling from the impassioned admission. It wasn't like Bruce to "need to talk" and it really wasn't like Bruce to talk about such deeply personal matters, especially regret. He wasn't sure what to say, and Bruce's abrupt segue into the impressive but impersonal features of the galley made it seem as though the subject was closed.

But then, Bruce had brought it up. He'd wanted to talk about it. Some kind of response was probably expected. Clark fell back on reporter instincts and asked a question:

"I'm sorry, Bruce, but one more thing," Clark said. "What's the special occasion?"

"Excuse me?"

"For the boat. You said that you bought the _Gatta_ as a gift for Selina, because you made a promise to her, and it sounds like that certainly predates the whole Talia mess. So, how come?"

"Oh, that," Bruce said lightly. "I've asked her to go shoe shopping with Poison Ivy."

Clark raised an eyebrow.

"It's a fact-finding mission."

"Are you sure a motor yacht is enough? Maybe you should get that plane after all." Like all tourists in Gotham, he and Lois had both expressed interest in the Iceberg when they first arrived, and Bruce had explained about the new "ownership". Clark wasn't sorry to hear that it hadn't reopened yet, as his "interest" had been less than sincere. Lois had never heard about Ivy crashing Dick's bachelor party and 'greening' Clark, along with all the other guests. If Lois and Ivy's paths were to cross, that could change.

"Whatever happened to the Penguin anyway?" Clark asked. "Is he even alive?"

"He's alive," Bruce said. "Let's just say he's - happier, and leave it at that."

* * *

Oswald Cobblepot returned from the kitchen with a fresh can of water. The euphorbia was due for its weekly spritz.

The birds twittered happily in the canopy over his head as he made his way onto the balcony that passed for a "back porch" in his residence above the Rydbergii Lounge. His Loveliness had turned it into a tiny forest with her ability to make anything grow anywhere.

He'd never fully acknowledged before this how birds and plants went hand-in-hand with each other, how you couldn't appreciate your feathered friends without appreciating how much they needed plants. How could he have resisted this remarkable synergy before?

Oswald spilled a trickle of water into the large cactus, then moved onto other plants that needed it. Another ten minutes, and he felt like he could reward himself.

He wasn't stupid. He knew that Gaia's Chosen could have an effect on other men, what was commonly referred to as 'greening'. But that was a temporary feeling, something that only lasted a day or two. This, these emotions, they had awakened in his breast, and never gone away. Surely that meant it was the real thing! Something that made his past infatuation with that faithless Lark Starling seem petty and small.

In his breast . . .

Oswald was lost in his thoughts for a minute or two as the word "breast" summoned up images of his goddess. Then he returned to his duties.

Before everything had changed, Oswald remembered days and nights alone in his office in the Lounge, time spent drinking. He'd been lonely and unhappy. Now the opposite was true. Poison Ivy was always near to him, and those times when she was physically present were a joy to him. And when had he been unhappy these past weeks?

Yes, the Iceberg was being transformed into something very different. Yes, all his possessions were now given to Her. True, his life involved a lot more work than it used to.

But how could it not be worth it? And he was able to provide her with all kinds of useful information and advice. In his own small way he was able to contribute to the new Rydbergii, even if there was no chance of her failing to make it a success.

Oswald patted his brow and looked at his watch. It had been long enough.

He set the watering can down and went to his small bedroom. There his shrine was waiting for him. Gaia's Chosen had encouraged him to do this. Dozens of photographs and newspaper pictures - those which She deemed fair depictions of her grace and beauty, not to mention that alabaster skin - were attached to the walls. He could sit there, look at them, and imagine she was there with him.

And as he did so, his time passed.

* * *

"Bitch," Eddie hissed as he barged into his temporary Chinatown hideout. "Stupid, interfering spawn! GANG AFT AGLAY!"

He was interrupted, though, by Il'Nar almost strangling him.

"Whoa, Il'Nar, stop!" Greg said, hearing the commotion and coming in a moment after. Il'Nar had his garrot pressed against Eddie's neck, but he hadn't actually broken the skin yet. "That's Eddie, remember? Showed you around Gotham, renting space here? You deliver things for him?"

Il'Nar released him slowly. "I apologize, Gr'oriBr'di," he said, "but he entered without identifying himself in the proper manner, and was speaking nonsense."

"Proper manner?" Eddie asked as he put a hand to his throat and stumbled away from the assassin.

"I told you, Il'Nar, I'm not big on the rituals," Greg said with a sigh. "Although Eddie, you might want to be more careful when you come in next time."

"I'll try to remember that," Eddie said. "It's just - the perfect scheme, and it's about to be ruined by some twitterhead impostor!"

Greg waved for Il'Nar to stand down. "Something happened at the museum?"

"You could say that. This new plan is supposed to be foolproof, LOOP OR OFF, and instead I've got fools crawling all over it, messing up my schedule!" Eddie flung his bag down. "The first night went off without a hitch. I was in and out with the prize, and Batman was nowhere to be found! But tonight, who crashes my party but _Barney Fife_ and . . ."

Eddie paused. At that moment it occurred to him that Talia al-Ghul, a.k.a. "demonspawn", was not just the woman he recognized underneath the Catwoman costume (although really, a tail?) in the museum tonight. Not just the nincompoop who tried to steal the very trinkets he'd come for. She was also the daughter of the man Greg and Il'Nar worked for.

Bad-mouthing the boss' daughter didn't strike Eddie as a good idea. Not in their hideout. Not when one of them tried to garrot him already. And Greg was okay, Eddie thought, one of them. Il'Nar, on the other hand -

"And a Catwoman impostor!" Eddie finished, leaving out any mention of her identity.

"I take it that's bad," Greg said.

"I've got a timetable, and I don't need inferior intellects ruining it," Riddler replied. "When I play my kind of chess with Batman, there's no room for amateurs." He frowned. "Hopefully the Bat will keep Pheromones out of it in the future, but I'll need to handle that stupid snatch myself."

"You don't think Ms. Kyle will handle this woman herself?"

Eddie chuckled. That was true. He would be depriving 'Lina of the joy of dismantling the spawn herself, but his schedule didn't leave time for him to wait around for Selina to unsheathe her claws. He could always fill her in afterwards. "I'm sure she will. But I think - for once - I have first claim."

Greg nodded. It was common knowledge that Catwoman and Riddler were closer than most Rogues. He assumed Nygma knew her better. "All you have to do is find her."

"You give me too little credit, Greg. I think I know exactly how to find her . . . hmm-hmm, yes, credit indeed. I'm not much for puns, but CAR DID CREST! Credit cards!"

To be continued . . .


	9. Chapter 9

The top Rogues all had "themes" that had to be indulged - to an extent, of course. So Pammy was willing to tolerate a certain amount of "felinity" from Selina Kyle. It was to be expected that Cat-woman would behave in a catlike manner from time to time.

Like now**:** Selina called to ask if Ivy still wanted to go shoe-shopping together, after she'd initially said that it was never going to happen**.** Well, cats were known to change their minds without warning or explanation. The Rydbergii Lounge would be opening in two days, and Pammy really didn't have time to look for shoes, but she supposed she could use a new pair for the grand opening.

So she had accepted with calm, queenly dignity. She had not sounded overeager. At all.

"What do you think of these?" she asked, holding up a stiletto-heel sandal with a jeweled ankle strap, all in the deepest, richest shades of green.

"Mm-hmm. Not bad."

Still, Ivy had been astonished by Selina's call. She had extended the original invitation on the day that she had accidentally greened Selina. She preferred not to think about that day, and she could only assume that Selina felt the same way. "Felinity" only went so far to explain why Selina had reversed course.

It had quickly occurred to Pammy that the most logical explanation was Selina wanted something from her. It was to be expected. She _was_ about to become the queen of Gotham's nightlife. Selina would be only the first of many. That being said, Ivy could admit to a little - disappointment. It was a feeling similar to that forgettable day when she realized Selina was only being supportive of her because she'd been greened. It just would be nice if someone spent time with her because they might actually enjoy her company.

Well, there was always Harley, but that wasn't really working out these days.

Disappointed or not, no one would turn down the opportunity to have Selina owe them a favor. And to be honest, she could use someone to talk to about her worries about the Lounge. Her employees were out of the question, none of the other Rogues had called on her lately, and Harley . . . again, no.

The thing was, they'd been shopping for shoes for half an hour, and they hadn't really said much. Okay, yes, it had been awkward at first. The last time they were together, Selina had painfully twisted her arm behind her back, forcibly dragged her across town to a magic shop, and had her interrogated in a most disrespectful manner by the store proprietor.

All right, it had been very awkward.

But whatever Selina wanted from her, she hadn't brought it up yet. Again, cats could be standoffish, finicky creatures, and Selina was allowed to play the cat - to a degree. But Selina was usually more direct than this. Instead she behaved like it was just another night at the Iceberg, as if she was here merely for the shoes and Ivy's company.

It galled Ivy to admit that she was unable to believe that.

Ivy hadn't said much herself, waiting for Selina to introduce the topic of whatever it was she wanted. Eventually, however, Ivy hesitantly made the first move. "So, I trust you're getting ready for the big reopening this week?"

"I - may not make it for the grand opening. But I'll come by soon."

Pammy deflated a little. She'd been counting on a little estrogen solidarity, but if all the other Rogues were coming, one absence wouldn't be noticed. Plus, Selina _did_ seem a bit regretful.

"You must be very excited," Selina added.

"Oh yes, of course," Ivy replied casually, perking up. "It's going to be quite a show. Oswald was quite a businessman, but people are going to see what a woman in charge can do."

Selina smiled slightly. "And as an added bonus, the Joker won't be showing up."

Ivy suddenly grinned. "Why yes, you know I hadn't thought about it like that, but you're right! That IS another benefit of his passing. Always being his obnoxious, loathsome self, imposing on others. I can even remember him chasing Blake with a crowbar the night he died . . . not that Blake doesn't deserve it now and then."

"Meow. But I guess Harley won't be appearing either? Last I heard, she was still in Arkham."

"Oh, no, she won't be making it," Ivy said, her face falling. "Unless there's a miracle. Still, she'll get out sooner or later." Then she looked off to the right. "She simply must," she muttered.

"So what changes have you made to the place?" Selina asked.

Ivy took this as an invitation to tell Selina everything about the new Rydbergii Lounge, and she happily began listing the various innovations she'd introduced. As she went on, however, she also found herself talking about fears and concerns which she'd tried not to admit.

In fact, Ivy revealed a lot more about her worries than she cared to. As a wealthy, influential, legitimate woman of business, there was a certain image she wanted to cultivate, and sounding like a frightened child wasn't it. But Selina was here and willing to listen, and unlike SOME people, she wasn't too wrapped up in her own problems to care about someone else.

"Oswald is just such a schmoozer," Ivy said at one point. "He's a snob, yes, but he can talk up a crowd. I'm not really keen on the notion of having to strike a conversation with some total stranger."

"Ivy," Selina replied, looking like there were things she wanted to say but wouldn't, "believe me, you can talk enough for most people. Strangers won't be expecting more than a 'Hello. Having a good time?' and the ones who aren't strangers, well . . . you certainly know how to talk to Eddie and Blake and Hugo by now. Listen, just to change the subject a minute, you mentioned Harley earlier. How is she doing? Since the Iceberg closed, the Gotham grapevine isn't what it used to be, and I haven't exactly visited the asylum lately."

"Fine, fine," Ivy said quickly. "I've visited her several times." Each time more depressing than the last, she didn't mention. Harley always seemed to be in the rubber room or a straitjacket. Or both. It had to be the timing of her visits. Simply no one spent that much time in a padded cell.

She wasn't really sure why she kept going back. Something drove her - probably because it was the only legitimate excuse she had to take a break from the exhausting work of getting the Rydbergii ready for relaunch. AND she had to keep a tight rein on Penguin's black market operations at the same time. It did give her someone to talk to, certainly. Ivy just wished Harley was a little more responsive.

A little less catatonic.

"Ivy?"

Pammy looked up, startled. She realized she was sitting down. "What?"

Selina was standing over her. "Focus, Ivy. You were off in your own world. I asked if you were worried about Jenna's."

"Who?" Ivy asked, mystified. She was a trifle embarrassed, moping about Harley when she had so much to do!

Selina paused, evidently thinking something over. "Never mind," she finally said. "What about the new bartender? It can't have been easy replacing Sly."

"Oh," Pammy said. "I've found two. Not as good as Sly, but they should do. Females, of course. Men don't seem to be applying for jobs . . . wait, how did you know Sly was gone?" she suddenly asked.

"He moved back to Florida," Selina explained. "I ran into him before he left." She paused. "He was taking Roxy with him," she added gently.

Ivy stared at her for a moment, and her lip curled in disgust. "Well, from the way he carried her sorry carcass out of the Iceberg that night, I shouldn't be surprised. I suppose men will always prefer victims, women who need protection, over the strong ones," she sneered. "Except your Bruce, of course."

Selina grimaced like she'd smelled a corpse flower. "Thanks," she said sardonically. "Look, I don't know what happened exactly between you and her, I wasn't there that night. A lot happened, obviously, and I've had to get all my information secondhand, mostly from men without memories."

"Ah," Pammy said. "Is that why you arranged this afternoon together? So you could get the real story? I believe we had a conversation like this before."

"You mean the day you greened me?"

"It was unintentional!" Pammy said shrilly. "You agreed it was an accident!"

"Lower your voice, Pam," Selina retorted. "You're making the salesmen nervous." The man who'd helped them earlier was coming towards them now, in fact.

"They're men," Pammy told her. "They should be nervous." She turned and saw the salesman coming over. "Because I'm Poison Ivy."

"No, technically you're Pamela Isley, nightclub owner," Selina reminded her forcefully. "For all public purposes, Penguin was a legitimate businessman, not a threat to the community. If you keep acting like Poison Ivy, ecoterrorist, you're not going to have any customers."

Ivy scowled. She hated to be reminded of that. But what was the point of her powers if she couldn't use them?

So she was unable to resist emitting a concentrated burst of pheromones directly at the salesman as he arrived. Selina wrinkled her nose as she undoubtedly caught a whiff of the scent. "Ivy, they're PAID to help, you don't need to - " she began to say.

But the salesman was already staring at Ivy in a daze. "Yes?" he asked.

"I like these," Ivy said, holding up a pair of heels, green of course. "Do you have them in a six?"

"Oh, honey, we've got those in every size," the salesman suddenly assured her. He actually reached out and briefly squeezed Ivy's shoulder, startling her. "But if you ask me, wouldn't these red ones suit your hair better?" He picked up a nearby pair and held them near Ivy's head. "Don't you agree?" he asked, looking at Selina.

"I guess you're right," Selina agreed, bemused.

Mystified by the salesman not reacting the way she'd expected, Ivy dosed him again.

"Tell you what, I'll find you the green ones and the red ones, bring them out, and then you can tell me what's been going on with yourself," the salesman continued. "I feel like we really should get to know each other better. Kay?"

Ivy nodded slowly. "Um, okay?"

Satisfied, the salesman hurried into the back room.

Ivy stared at Selina. "Did you see that?"

"Hey, you're the one who gassed him."

"I may have scaled back on my use of those herbs," Ivy said, "but not so much that my powers aren't still enhanced. That man should have dropped to his knees and worshipped me, not, not - given me fashion advice!"

"Well, he certainly got a lot friendlier."

"Yes, friendly! He acted less like a man and more like . . ." Ivy stopped, and her eyes narrowed. "Like a woman," she finished.

"Pffft," Selina said. "Your powers are gender-bending now too?"

Ivy didn't respond at first. It had not been lost on her that when Selina had been accidentally greened, she had not become sexually attracted to Ivy—which Ivy had been grateful for. Selina was a highly attractive woman, but the idea of her lusting after Ivy just seemed… wrong. Then too, if she felt that way, there seemed little doubt that Selina's opinion would be far more _emphatic_. If there had been any hint of a sexual aspect to her greening, the payback would have been cat-astrophically worse.

Ivy's limited experience since then had suggested that women in general, not just Selina, became very friendly and supportive when greened. Her theory was that the target's gender influenced the outcome. And yet this shoe salesman's behavior was very similar to how women reacted. So if it _wasn't_ the victim's gender… why would this particular man react the way women did, instead of like other men?

One possibility suddenly sprang to mind.

"Selina," she finally said, "when he was helping us earlier, did he seem at all - gay to you?"

"Pamela," Selina said after a moment. "The man is wearing a pink pinstripe shirt, he's peddling 600 Jimmy Choos, he hasn't so much as glanced at my tits, instead he complimented my jacket – which he recognized as a Roberto Cavalli. I'm sure all gay men don't act alike, and I'd hate to propagate a stereotype, but yeah, I think he's gay."

Ivy just chuckled and waited for him to return. When he did with several shoe boxes, she smiled brightly. "Since we're friends now," she said to him, "why don't you tell me about who you're seeing these days?"

He returned her smile as he set the boxes down. "Well, Harry and I are having our three-month anniversary on Tuesday. He's a firefighter, if you can believe I'm that lucky . . ."

Ivy tuned out the rest of what he had to say, and she sent a triumphant glance in Selina's direction. Selina shrugged and nodded as if to say,_ Score one for you_.

And that was how Ivy first discovered, _years_ after she first got her powers, that she couldn't green ALL men. Just the straight ones.

* * *

Talia alternated between fury and panic as she swept up her bag, checked her appearance in the mirror, and stormed into the hotel corridor, slamming the door behind her. Her room had been a meager refuge from the sneers and silent remarks she'd received in lobbies, elevators, and dining rooms, but even that now had been invaded by that weaselly little goblin! Most people she had to deal with lately would allude disparagingly to her tenure at Lioncorp. The offensive peasant had forced a cat upon her, made vague threats regarding her newest campaign against the cat-bitch, and belittled her Beloved. It was not a refreshing change.

At least he'd taken the damned feline with him when he scurried out without warning. But not before it left bite marks on the handle of her Birkin.

At any rate, Talia had to go somewhere, anywhere, where she would be treated as she deserved to be treated, not like some hopeless failure. That meant a visit to her father's base in Chinatown. Fortunately the deathly boring Ulstarn had been removed. She wondered what stuff his replacement was made of.

The elevator doors softly pinged, allowing her to enter the thankfully empty car. She would collect herself in private, grace her father's minions with her presence, and perhaps have something done about that obnoxious "Riddler".

"Hold the door, _hold the door!_"

So obnoxious he'd been, she imagined she could still hear his voice, trying to give her orders.

Then a green-sleeved arm wedged its way between the closing elevator doors. They re-opened, allowing a slightly breathless Riddler to join her inside.

Talia rounded on him, fit to explode. "How dare you!" she snarled, not even thinking to exit the elevator car as the doors closed once again. "What makes you think you have - if you don't get off this elevator right away - "

"The doors _are_ closed, you know."

"Look, partly thanks to you, I am having a _really bad day_!"

"I guess you think that makes you one of - "

The elevator slowed to a halt, having descended just two floors. The doors opened, revealing two women dressed expensively, waiting to go down. Talia saw the look in their eyes that she'd come to dread, that of recognition.

"Sorry, Claudia," one of the women said to the other. Her stare jabbed at Talia, scorn and disgust in her eyes. "My ex went to court to ask for a reduction of alimony because his Lioncorp holdings have dropped so much in value, and it looks like he might get it. So you'll forgive me if I choose to wait for the next one."

The doors closed again before Claudia could respond. Talia stood there for a moment as she fought a battle with her emotions that she knew she would lose shortly. Her lip quivered.

The Riddler was standing there, looking like he would have preferred not witnessing that last exchange, but before Talia could lose all shame and give into tears, he made a _tch_ sound. "Vraags."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Penelope Vraag. It's Dutch for 'question'. I kidnapped her cousin six years ago. She was - vicious. I guess it's a family trait."

Talia wiped her cheek with a finger. "It's nothing I haven't heard before since I arrived here." _Or in Metropolis_.

The Riddler straightened his tie. "Look, er - I thought about earlier, and I may have overreacted. Although I don't appreciate you trying to cause trouble for 'Lina."

She finally deigned to look at him, surprised.

"How about I . . . make it up to you? With dinner?" he asked hesitantly, although there was a gleam in his eye she couldn't place right away.

Suddenly Talia understood. Of course he'd overreacted. He'd incurred the wrath of the daughter of Ra's al-Ghul. Repenting his folly, he was obviously trying to correct his mistake and spare himself an assassin's garrot. It was pitifully obvious. Mentally she sneered at his feeble attempt.

"Why ever would I, after before?" she asked him.

He raised an eyebrow. "Well, for one thing, I'm the only person you're going to meet today who doesn't give a damn about Lioncorp."

She was going to tell him how transparent he was, and that his plan wasn't going to work. She felt the elevator gradually slowing to a halt, however. In a moment she'd be in the lobby, where there would of course be stares from every direction and unspoken thoughts and . . .

_where she would be treated as she deserved to be treated, not like some hopeless failure_

Talia sighed. It was the least he could do after how he'd spoken to her earlier. "You're buying."

* * *

Selina was going to kill him. Three hours of his mind racing, and that had been the most immediate, the most obvious conclusion.

Considering the amount he'd drunkover dinner, Edward should have been either incoherent or hungover at this point. Certain events, however, could clear his mind as quickly as one of Jervis' mind-control chips.

Realizing you'd just spent an hour having drunken sex with Talia al-Ghul was one of those events. Even if she hadn't been snoring in a manner that could politely be termed "unladylike", he wouldn't been able to sleep after that.

The plan had been so simple twenty-four hours ago, so elementary. Whiledealing with the likes of The Bat required brilliance, having to dumb things down for Talia al-Ghul was easy, if distasteful. His newest scheme had started off so well, and then not only did the demonspawn interfere by showing up at his next target in a catsuit, but she'd dragged that numbskull Azrael into it too. It was like having a pack of four-year-olds loose in your carefully-arranged study.

Get her out of Gotham, that was the plan. That WAS the plan, anyway, before she had a meltdown. And buried beneath her incoherent ramblings was the insinuation that Bruce Wayne and Batman were the same person. A laughable notion for all of two seconds, before it became more compelling with every passing breath.

The importance of uncovering the truth had led to two further unpleasant steps - postponing his next robbery, and making nice with Talia in order to find out what she knew and how she knew it. Some would say the second task would be impossible for him, after the way he'd spoken to her earlier. Those people had never experienced the old Nigma charm.

That, and they didn't have Talia al-Ghul figured out the way Eddie did. Too many women in his experience would latch onto the slightest hint of non-hostility and decide romance was in the air. Stand next to them in a group photo and they start picking out china patterns. He had Talia pegged as exactly that kind of needy headcase.

So Edward booked a room at the spawn's hotel, on the same floor and conveniently situated across the hall, where they couldn't help but bump into each other. She would seize upon this as further evidence of his commitment. But just as he was approaching his door, he saw the object of his faked affection disappearing down the hall and toward the elevators. He'd caught up with her, but couldn't help falling back on his usual banter when she confronted him.

The Vraag woman gave him the opening he'd needed. Talia was even more needy than he'd initially realized. At that moment she'd have killed for someone, anyone who wouldn't bring up her failure at Lioncorp. She grabbed onto his dinner invitation like an ARDENT WORD, a drowned rat.

That gave him an hour or so to unearth what she knew about the Batman. She would probably be on her guard. On some level she'd have to be aware that he had an ulterior motive. Nigma doubted that a creature like Talia could present him with any kind of actual _challenge_, but he was happy to engage her in a test of wits (such as they were) simply as something to do. It would keep his mind occupied as they both went through the pretense of courtship while trying to destroy each other.

That all changed when she was the first to order wine. It had occurred to him that it would be a great deal less intellectually taxing if he could just get her drunk. He'd surreptitiously told the waiter to keep the drinks flowing - even if it pinched his wallet a bit more than he preferred. Of course, even a nitwit like her would realize he was plying her with alcohol if he didn't drink along with her. Still, he'd overindulged many times at the Iceberg. He was quite certain he could keep pace with her.

Obviously he was wrong.

Edward looked over at Talia. She was not one of those women who looked good while sleeping. Although he had to admit her lovemaking wasn't bad. Not as good as Doris, certainly not. But the sex had been oddly satisfying, and she'd been surprisingly energetic.

That being said, the purpose of the whole charade had been to mine her for information on Bruce Wayne and Batman, and he'd gotten virtually nothing from her at dinner. It could be argued that he'd gotten a great deal from her _after_ dinner, but where Batman was concerned, he was no closer to the truth than before —and there was no telling how Talia would react when she woke up in the morning.

He was sourly aware that it probably wouldn't be good.

So he was on his own now. He'd have to figure it out for himself. Of course he COULD, but he didn't want to delay the timetable any longer than he had to. He could always just ask Selina, he supposed - if it was true, then she had to know, and he wasn't entirely sure how he felt about her keeping that kind of secret from him. If she had only told him sooner, then . . .

Edward's amazing brain did something it didn't often do on its own. It stopped.

If it was true . . . and Selina was as much in love with him as she appeared to be . . . then . . .

Hm.

Hm.

Uh-oh.

For the first time, it occurred to him that this was one of those very rare riddles that he might not want the answer to.

Sleep, he knew, was going to elude him for the rest of the night.

* * *

When Catwoman landed on the rooftop where Eddie had asked her to meet him, she did so warily. Normally their meetings were over drinks. She highly doubted there would be an open bar here. So this was about privacy, and that could mean either good or bad news.

Eddie was in costume, looking down at the street below with one foot up on the edge, twirling his cane absently. Selina joined him calmly and looked where he was looking. "So that's Jenna's," she said by way of greeting.

"HIT OUR ARMS. Rumor has it they're offering a special 'sneak preview' for the Rogues and henchmen before the gala opening," Eddie said without moving his eyes.

"Is this a Hatter rumor or an anybody-else rumor?"

"Jervis."

"Then it's probably true. Will you be going?"

"Of course," Eddie said. "Wouldn't want anyone to think I'm not there because I didn't make the list. You?"

"Eventually," Selina replied. Bruce was waiting to see whether Jenna's or the new Rydbergii Lounge had a better shot at remaining open in the long run. It made Batman's life slightly easier to have one primary Rogue hangout rather than none or two, and he was prepared to grace the likely winner with a Bruce Wayne "slumming" appearance if it meant ending the competition sooner. Selina, on the other hand, would probably visit them both. Jenna's out of feline curiosity, and the Rydbergii for the non-feline, wholly human fascination with train wrecks.

Eddie nodded. "Riddle me this, 'Lina. What's the only thing worse than an unsolvable riddle?"

_So many answers_, Selina thought. "There's no such thing," she said instead.

"I'd have said the same thing last week. But there is a more appropriate answer, one that actually answers the question instead of than sidestepping it. The irony of that used to amuse me… until recently. The one thing worse than an unsolvable riddle, Lina, is the riddle you're afraid to solve."

"Since when have you ever been afraid of a riddle?"

"It's not so much the riddle as the possible answer," he said dourly.

Selina smiled. "Like what Hugo does when he's alone?" she asked, trying to lighten the mood.

Eddie stiffened. "Selina, please, don't bring up his name again, okay?"

"Okay, okay. Touchy tonight, Edward. It's not like I came up here tonight to banter about Hugo aptly named Strange. It's your meeting, what you want to talk about?"

He finally looked at her. It was piercing, and yet at the same time nervous. "I've come across some information," he said gingerly, "suggesting that your boyfriend is Batman."

A cat may respond to an intensely nasty surprise in one of two ways: a loud _reowl_followed by a high-speed flight from the room, or a still, silent non-reaction recognizable only by another cat. At first, Selina's reaction was the latter: absolutely no reaction at all. To display the wrong kind of shock, to become angry or defensive, could all be taken as an admission. But to be too cool and casual would amount to much the same thing. So instead she merely studied him for a moment with feline curiosity hovering on amusement, followed finally by a naughty grin.

"Eddie," she began, but got no farther when he tried to interrupt.

"Selina - "

"Eddie . . . Claw," she cut him off, placing a clawtip delicately on his upper lip. "Much as I appreciate the heads up, I think I've spent enough time with both Bruce and Batman, that I could tell if they were the same man."

"Selina - "

"Eddie . . . Claw. Now look, have you ever heard that expression 'a woman can tell'? I know this isn't exactly the circumstances they had in mind, but trust me on this. It's on point. So if this is you trying to warn me that my lover is keeping a dark secret from me, I can save you the trouble. It's not true."

"Oh, Selina, I would love nothing better than knowing it's not true," Eddie said plaintively as he stepped down. "I might be able to get some sleep, for starters."

"Eddie, what's gotten into you?"

He groaned. "The possibility! That's what's gotten into me, Selina. Do you know what it would mean if Bruce Wayne was Batman? The Bat's identity is the biggest riddle of them all, and who solved it first? HUGO, that's who! That imbecilic fart! Every time I'd look at him, I'd think about how that old pervert figured it out while I laughed at his theory along with everyone else! A man's ego can only take so much, 'Lina!"

Inwardly, Selina breathed a sigh of relief. It was unrealistic to think he would drop the subject after such a simple assurance, but his behavior was nothing like what she would expect if he'd really solved the mystery. He'd had a scare, that was all. And here he was handing her the means to allay his fears: Hugo Strange . . . Hugo made for a strange ally, but his very unsuitability made him the perfect foil for Edward Nigma's ego.

"There you have it, Eddie. If you don't want to give me credit for knowing the difference between Bruce and Batman," she paused to give the final syllables an ironic chuckle, "and for that matter, if you don't want to give Bruce or Batman credit enough not to try a deception like that - I mean, puhlease, Eddie, think about it. If Bruce was Batman he'd be in for one hell of a scratching when I found out, now wouldn't he? Anyway, if you toss all that aside — me, Bruce, Batman, and Bruce-Batman are all mouth-breathing morons — you're still left with you and Hugo. All five of us agree that he's an idiot, right? And it's absolutely impossible that he got there before someone like you."

"Me?! Me?!" Eddie burst out, flapping an arm in her direction. "It's not ME that's the issue here, it's you! Christ, Selina, he wouldn't be the Bat any more, he'd be _your boyfriend_! How the hell am I supposed to fight that? What if I hurt him? What if I _kill_ him? How could I even risk that, knowing the pain that would cause my best friend? Believe me, Selina, it's true what they say. Wisdom _sucks_ when it brings no profit to the wise."

Selina froze. Eddie's fear of having his triumph upstaged by Hugo Strange didn't come as a surprise to her. Neither did him saying that her well-being was important to him. But to hear Eddie say that her emotional well-being was _more important than defeating Batman_ . . . that level of concern for the welfare of others wasn't common among the Rogues. Hell, where defeating Batman was concerned, it was unprecedented. And it made her realize that whatever was going on here, it wasn't about him putting her on the spot and dragging the secret out of her.

"Okay, fine," she said quietly. "You don't want to believe it's true. And I just told you it's not true. So what's the problem?"

He scowled. "The problem is you might be lying. No offense, Selina, but you'd have every reason to lie if it was true."

"You seem to have riddled yourself in between a rock and a hard place," she said kindly. "You won't believe me if I say no, but you don't want me to say yes. You must know the claws will eventually enter the conversation if you don't come around to whatever the hell it is you _do_ want."

Eddie sighed. "I want you to tell me if it's true, fully knowing the consequences of what you'd be saying. You know how I am, Selina. I'll solve the riddle on my own if I have to. But like you said before, you already know the truth. You must. It's not possible that you don't. I can just ask you. Whatever you tell me now, I'll believe it. Because if he's NOT, then I can go on like before, not pulling any punches, not having to worry that I'd be hurting you by extension."

On some level, Selina understood what he was saying. He was saying… he was saying that it was all too hard for him and he was dumping it all on her.

Catwoman hissed at him.

"Uh, 'Lina?"

She came towards him and poked him in the chest**, **the same claw that she placed so playfully on his lip only moments before now delivering a decidedly un-playful threat.

"I'm only going to say this once, Edward," she said menacingly. "You're the one with the riddle fetish, not me. Solve it or don't solve it. I don't care. But I'm not doing your dirty work for you. Take it up with Batman, if you've got the balls, or take it up with a therapist. We both know one who can talk about this particular subject for hours on end. But you want answers, you leave me the _hell_ out of it. I'm not here to make your life easier. Ask me anything like this ever again, and I'll give you a scratching that will make Hell Month seem like Carnival in Rio. Got it?!"

Eddie blanched and gulped.

Not waiting for a more substantive response, Selina unfurled her whip and swung off the rooftop. She was pissed, she needed to prowl . . . and she especially needed to find Bruce.

Knowing what Eddie would be compelled to do next, everything was about to change.

To be continued . . .


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Batman was finished patrolling for the night. There was no reason for him to be perched atop a building at this point. He really ought to be headed for the cave, where he could put all his thoughts into that night's log entry.

But home meant Selina, and he wasn't prepared to see her right now. It wasn't that he was angry or upset with her. It wasn't that he didn't want to see her. It was only that feelings could be complicated for him whenever it came to her and . . .

Nygma.

The news that Riddler had asked Selina point-blank if he was Bruce Wayne had been the least shocking information she'd provided him that day. He knew of all his enemies the one most likely to one day penetrate his secret was the one who saw it as a riddle ("Who is under the Batman's mask?"), had a compulsion to solve riddles, and the intelligence to do so. He long knew this was a possibility, and had long ago constructed protocols should it occur.

Frustratingly, those carefully-planned protocols had gone right out the window once he heard what else Selina had to say. There had been three things, each more troubling than the last.

One, Nygma did not _want_ Bruce Wayne to be Batman. Like Oedipus he still needed an answer to the riddle, even if it wasn't what he wanted to hear, but he had also implied that if it was true, Selina should _lie_ and say it wasn't.

Batman had never considered that one of his enemies would learn the secret of his identity, but not _want_ it. It was a mindset he had never planned for.

Two, Nygma didn't want Batman to be Bruce Wayne because he knew Selina was in love with Bruce, and because Selina was his friend. He couldn't put Batman in a deathtrap knowing that if he died, it would hurt his friend tremendously.

It was a very normal feeling to have. My friend's well-being is more important than my own selfish wants. Batman didn't like it. He didn't like his enemies having normal, unselfish feelings. He didn't like having to see his enemies as humans.

Three, Nygma had told Selina that he initially got the idea _from someone else_.

That meant there was some unknown person out there who conceivably knew his secret as well. Some person who might not care about Selina's happiness. And only Nygma knew this person's identity. Dealing with Nygma became secondary to taking care of the mystery threat.

Events had played out swiftly. Selina had warned Nygma that if he wanted to know the truth, he should ask Bruce himself. In typical Riddler fashion, he instead sent a clue – a cat inside a box decorated with question marks – to Bruce Wayne at his home. That night, when the Riddler arrived at the Parker Exchange, Batman was waiting.

It wasn't a crime. It was the only way the two men could feel comfortable having this kind of discussion.

The protocol had called for Batman to point out that if Riddler revealed the secret, it would no longer have any value for him, like a riddle where everyone knows the answer. Instead, he'd proposed a trade. He would confirm his identity, in exchange for the name of the person who gave Riddler the idea.

It would give Riddler the closure he needed. It would also give him some small sense of victory, having "forced" Batman to reveal his real name in exchange for something he needed from Riddler.

It would give Batman the bitter satisfaction of knowing how little joy Riddler would derive from the outcome.

Fortunately, the mystery person had turned to be Talia al-Ghul. Riddler had made some evasive comments about their encounter after Talia's recent attempt to frame Selina. Apparently it had interfered with his latest scheme. Batman hadn't wanted details. If Riddler had had to deal with Talia, then this had been a very bad week for him indeed.

He supposed this was the best-case scenario. It was very possible that the Riddler had been neutralized as a serious threat, if he could no longer bring himself to hurt Batman. When viewed in conjunction with the Joker's death, Harley Quinn's extended stay in Arkham, and Poison Ivy's poor handling of Penguin's criminal operations, this marked yet another major step in reducing "costumed crime" in Gotham. It was changing Gothamites' lives for the better. It was changing _his_ life for the better.

It just meant that he had this . . . connection with Nygma that he hadn't had before. Because of Selina.

And because of that, Batman derived little joy from the outcome.

* * *

Along with the required background in science and biochemistry, any self-respecting botanist needed a basic knowledge of Latin. Admittedly Ivy didn't know enough Latin to, say, translate Caesar's Commentaries, although certainly Ivy never had the desire to read them. One arrogant man's attempts to repeatedly glorify himself, when all he did was chop down a hundred forests in order to make more catapults.

Anyway, Ivy still knew more than enough Latin to understand what the derivation was of the name of any given plant species. Hence the name "Rydbergii", for example.

As said Rydbergii Lounge closed for the night, the phrase that kept coming to mind was _annis horribilis_. That perfectly described what her life had become.

Once the Joker was dead and the Penguin belonged to her, the plan had seemed absurdly simple. With the profits from Cobblepot's black market operations, her secret accounts would swell. This money could go toward any number of plans she had to protect plant life worldwide. With the success of the new Lounge, Ivy would ensure that nobody could possibly think that anyone besides her - a certain finicky cat came to mind - was the leading lady of Gotham's underworld. And after a suitable period of grieving, Harley would be released from Arkham in time to join her at the Rydbergii's grand opening.

It had looked beautiful in her mind's eye. But none of it had come true - yet. True _yet_.

True, the underworld operations were making money, but profits were down from when Cobblepot was in charge. She couldn't understand why. If he could do it, why not she? And her share of the pie wasn't sitting in the bank. So far it had vanished in a flood of Rydbergii renovations invoices. And Harley . . . was probably crying in a padded cell at that moment in Arkham, growing worse with grief and guilt every day.

To cap all this off, the Rydbergii's grand opening that night had been a total disaster. They'd had a total of forty paying customers. _Forty!_ The take hadn't even covered the cost of advertising the opening. None of the prominent Rogues had come. None of the _less-_prominent Rogues had come. Not even the henchmen had come!

She snarled under her breath. They thought they could blackball her? Wait until they tried to hold out a few more days. Where else could they go? They'd come crawling back to her, and she'd generously promise not to green them if they were good little boys.

"Ms. Isley?"

Ivy looked up from the bar, startled. Raven was standing there nervously. "What?"

Raven hesitated. "Well, um - some of the girls are a little anxious," she finally said. "They won't be able to make a living on nights like tonight."

"It will get better," Ivy said dismissively.

"But . . . if it doesn't, they'll look for better pay elsewhere."

Ivy looked at Raven like she were a particularly unwary species of bug that had come to gnaw on something sweet, only to find it was inside a pitcher plant. "And pray tell, Raven, what makes you think it won't get better?" she asked innocently.

* * *

Raven didn't like that question one bit. She shouldn't have approached Ivy in the first place, but the girls were more than nervous, and Raven was one of the only people with the seniority to approach Ivy.

She waited a moment, as if to think about Ivy's question. She didn't need to think, she knew _exactly_ why it wouldn't get better. Instead she thought about the last time the Iceberg Lounge had a "grand reopening" because of Poison Ivy.

For reasons the hostess was never entirely clear about, Ivy had encased the entire building in living plant matter while she ranted from the rooftop. Mr. Cobblepot, with what had been his usual take-charge attitude, had commandeered Mr. Freeze's ice gun and used it to blast an exit from within.

While the interior of the Iceberg was largely intact afterwards, outside was a different story, and scaffolds went up for days as the Lounge was closed for repairs. But when the doors finally reopened, the place looked better than ever, as it usually did after a Rogue-related shutdown, and business was brisk. Whatever ax Ivy had had to grind with the Iceberg, it had obviously failed.

If Ivy hadn't so clearly _tried_ (and failed) to make THIS reopening work, Raven could almost believe that this was a wildly successful renewal of that old, forgotten grudge. Because so far, their only customers were civilians and tourists.

Raven didn't need to have the mind of someone like the Riddler to understand how this had happened. For all intents and purposes, this was Ivy's "lair" now. And any man who knew her was more likely to enter a cave filled with bears waking up from hibernation than step into Poison Ivy's lair. That eliminated the important Rogues except for Catwoman, and it was common knowledge that she wasn't friends with Ivy either. That also eliminated henchmen, organized crime, and gangs like the Ghost Dragons. And with no men, there was no reason for the groupies to show up either.

The only way Ivy was going to pull in the old crowd was if they had no alternative, and a few months ago that might have worked. But it was common knowledge that a rival club called "Jenna's" catering to the same customers was opening in under two weeks.

Common knowledge, that is, to everyone except Ivy.

Raven had attended a secret gathering of Rydbergii Lounge employees weeks ago. Most women wanted to quit, but no one was willing to be the first. There was a fear that if the Lounge went belly up, Ivy would be looking for people to blame other than herself, and that "disloyal staff" would be high on her hit list. Plus there was always the chance that Cobblepot would regain his senses before long. Raven and Dove had both confirmed that Cobblepot was alive and somewhere inside what had been his old quarters above the Lounge, before Ivy had greened him and moved in.

Alive, if you could call permanent, hopeless devotion to Poison Ivy a "life". Raven shivered.

It was also at that meeting that rumors of "Jenna's" spread among the staff. It didn't seem like Ivy knew, and no one was going to be the bearer of bad tidings. They figured she'd find out on her own sooner or later.

As far as Raven knew, Ivy had NOT found out on her own. When she finally did, Raven didn't want to be anywhere _near_ her.

"Raven?"

Raven jumped. She'd almost forgotten where she was.

"You were going to tell me why the Rydbergii could conceivably go out of business at some point?" Ivy prompted her, eyes like a snake's.

Raven swallowed. She could have told Ivy that it was her idea of "interacting with customers". Ivy had tried to talk to several guests, evidently thinking it was her job to make them feel welcome. Evidently she also thought she could do this by going into the usual rant, denunciating various people and businesses for their role in harming the environment, only to awkwardly drift to a stop and ask the customers "what they thought".

Even this pathetic try made Ivy clearly uncomfortable, but not as much as the guests.

Raven could have told Ivy that she felt _sad_ for her that no one ever bothered to teach her how to make small talk with strangers, but Raven wanted to go on living. The last time Poison Ivy lost her temper inside the Iceberg, she'd put Roxy Rocket in a coma. And then there was all that new greenery in the Rydbergii – just because there were no giant flytraps, it didn't mean the walls were any less dangerous.

So she settled on a safer answer. "Because the other Rogues might not come back?"

Ivy laughed. She acted like it wasn't somewhat nervous laughter. "Oh, don't worry about that, Raven. People like that, they need a place where they can have a drink and an audience. Where else can they get that but here?"

"Nowhere, I guess," Raven hazarded.

"Precisely." Ivy sighed. "If this . . . rough patch lasts for a few days, I'll give the staff a temporary raise if it means getting them to stay put. Do you think that will calm their nerves?"

"I suppose so," Raven said, startled. That was . . . possibly the first right move Ivy had made that night.

If she didn't make more, though, Jenna's might open to find its competition was already nothing but fertilizer.

* * *

Talia was more than ready to leave Gotham behind. Her latest visit had been a fiasco from the start, one which had snowballed with every passing day. Clearly every additional hour she remained here was an invitation for some new disaster to strike.

There was, however, one distasteful but necessary errand left for her to perform before she could leave. That was to make sure the impudent troll Edward Nygma understood that what happened between them was a mistake. A ghastly, horrible, apocalyptic mistake, which they would never repeat.

While generally it was considered in poor taste for a man to leave a woman's bed before she awoke the following morning, Talia would have preferred it if Nygma were gone when she awoke that day with a splitting hangover. There had been screaming - followed by groans, whispered curses, and a chastened little man fleeing in terror. She had come to Gotham to present the bankrupt carcass of Lioncorp at Beloved's feet as a gift. Then there was to be a scheme to shatter his relationship with the damned hellcat by framing her for burglary and murder. This would culminate in Beloved at last acquiescing to the inevitability of their love.

Instead she had a drunken sexual encounter with another man. And not a particularly fine specimen, either, even if the lovemaking itself was well overdue and not unpleasant. Perhaps men had gotten better at it since the nineteenth century.

The only reason she had not had a DEMON assassin dispatched after Nygma immediately was the knowledge that it was not entirely his fault. It was the impolite stares and comments she had received from total strangers since her arrival. If not for this constant barrage of contempt, she would not have had dinner with the first man to offer a kind word, and she certainly would not have over-imbibed. That had led to her state of arousal, where she had thrown herself at the first man available. Any man in that position would have been helpless to resist her charms. (Any man except Beloved, which still vexed her.)

Therefore, Nygma would not be ritually strangled. But he had to be made to understand that they were not in a relationship. If he began showing up uninvited and making demands on her time, that would be intolerable.

So, during her long-delayed visit to DEMON's headquarters in Chinatown, instead of an assassin, Talia had requested a courier to locate Nygma and arrange a final meeting. There she suffered yet another unpleasant surprise when she discovered that Gri'oriBr'di and Nygma had a business relationship! That Nygma had been _renting space_ from DEMON and had _slept_ there only a few nights ago! While this did make it quite easy to have Nygma contacted, it also killed any desire she had had to get to know her father's lieutenant better. Any man who would enter into business dealings with the deranged puzzle-maker must have very poor judgment.

Even headquarters itself had, in her mind, become infected with Nygma's presence. Cheated of the chance to hold their meeting on home ground, where she would be firmly in control, she had been forced to propose a neutral site. That had led to the difficult question of where. In any fine establishment, she was more likely to encounter more rude and undignified Gothamites. Any other establishment was beneath her. Reluctantly, however, she had agreed to meet Nygma at this deplorable diner. It was not only important that she not be recognized. It was also important that she not be recognized _with him_.

"I will be leaving Gotham this evening, and I do not plan on returning any time soon," Talia informed him as he fidgeted with small packets of artificial sugars. "We will probably never meet again. I think that is best."

"No problem," Nygma muttered. He seemed to have a hard time looking at her. The poor thing. He was probably devastated.

"I realize it must be hard for you to hear this," Talia said magnanimously. "I can only imagine how wonderful it was for you. It was . . . good for me too. But it can never happen again. I am promised to another, and it would never work between us."

"Right."

He had been more talkative the other night. He was taking it worse than she had expected. She had to be firm. "Do not try to contact me again," she warned him as she stood up, her beastly American coffee untouched. "Otherwise I will have to have my minions execute you."

"I'll try to resist," Nygma said, putting a hand to his head as if it pained him.

"Good," Talia said. It was gratifying to see how powerfully she had affected him in so short a time. "And I hope you are able to find someone who can . . . try to do for you what I did."

Instead of responding, Nygma dropped his head and banged it on the table.

"Well then, farewell," Talia said before she swept out. She was in a hurry - hurry to get away from this diner, this man, and most of all this city and its people. But it wasn't a complete loss.

_You've still got it, Talia._

* * *

_You've still got it, Eddie,_ he thought sourly as she dashed off. _Still got the ability to attract the stupid and the delusional_.

The decision to agree to meet with Talia one more time had not been an easy one. His life had been turned upside-down since she gave him the idea about Bruce Wayne being Batman. Since then he'd confirmed it, solved one of the most jealously guarded secrets in the world, obtained the kind of information his fellow Rogues would have murdered and massacred for. And it had made his life harder.

So the idea of sitting across from the woman who had completely screwed up his life wasn't a very appealing one. He'd only agreed because he was afraid that she would send a killer after him if he refused. Someone like Greg's new henchman, the next Gotham Strangler.

Eddie had been relieved when Talia said she wanted to end things. He didn't think they'd really even begun, but clearly she wasn't right in the head. Still, he was troubled by the fact that she, surprise surprise, just _would not shut up_. That she evidently believed she was the world's greatest lover was no shock, even if he did feel the need to bang his head at one point. But this conversation could have been handled with a phone call. Instead she needed to justify her decision endlessly!

One phrase that especially stuck out was "I am promised to another". After she'd left, he had begun to worry that her incessant blathering was a result of the fact that she really _did_ have feelings for him, but that she felt compelled to end it because of an arranged marriage. She'd said it was good for her too. What if she was trying to convince _herself_, not him, that it couldn't work?

He had a sudden image of Talia leaving the poor sucker at the altar and showing up at Eddie's lair, having proclaimed to her father that she would only marry for love, and that lucky him was the man she loved.

And that would be when he called Bruce to save him from forty ninjas.

Hopefully he was just imagining things. It was bad enough having to figure out what to do with his life now that he knew Batman was Selina's steady boyfriend. Having to juggle Talia would make things three times as hard, and she simply wasn't worth it. True, she hadn't been as bad as the hopelessly brain-dead groupies he encountered at the Iceberg. _Nobody_ could be as bad as 'Clurissa', still etched in his memory. And the sex had been gratifying.

But she was clearly INDOORS - no Doris.

* * *

There's a delightful little scene in a classic film titled _Caddyshack II_ where Robert Stack ventures into his country club for the first time since it was bought out by a vulgar little man played by Jackie Mason. The clubhouse looks exactly like it used to, and for a moment Stack starts to think that maybe things won't be that different. And then he goes outside and finds the golf course has been turned into an amusement and water park. We tell you, we were rolling on the floor, laughing so hard it drew tears.

We are lying, actually. _Caddyshack II_ is truly unworthy of its _II._ It is a miserable comedy, and Harvey has reminded us repeatedly that the first _Caddyshack_ is ten, even twenty-two times better. We are willing to concede the argument, but the cold hard fact remains that _Caddyshack_ was the FIRST movie, not the second. As such, we have not seen it in some time. It is a cruel twist of that bitch we know and love, Fate, that the movies were not filmed in reverse order.

At any rate, we approached the doorman at Jenna's with something approaching the trepidation Robert Stack must have felt when he arrived at his clubhouse doors. We have heard reports that Jenna's is appealing to the same kind of clientele as Pammy's Rydbergii Lounge, namely people like us. (We use the term "appealing" loosely. Since the Lounge reopened last week, reports indicate that the Rydbergii appeals to no one except our former "Petal".) No one seems to know much about Jenna's, however, except that it's being bankrolled by wealthy, law-abiding citizens, namely people _not_ like us. There's a concern that the place will be a disappointment, since people not like us really don't understand people like us.

We must be more nervous than we thought. We're starting to sound like Jervis.

Bravely we summon our courage and head for the doors. After we flip for it. Unscarred side up, drinks it is.

The doorman is dealing with a would-be customer when we arrive. "Rogues, henchmen, and groupies only," he tells the luckless man. "Your name or gang ain't on the list, you ain't gettin' in." He sees us, begins to raise the wad of papers to his eyes, and then stops himself. "Of course, Mr. Two-Face," he says. "Come right in. Make yourselves at home."

Referring to us in the plural. We like him already. We sneer at the man who has been denied, and enter. What we find is - not quite the golf course. Miniature golf, maybe. But not a water park. Jenna's is spacious and dark, rather like a high-end lair. It seems to have been unable to resist joining the ranks of restaurants and clubs that festoon their walls with posters and knickknacks from a bygone era, but at least there appears to be some kind of theme: old revolvers, arrest warrants, crime scene photographs. We like the vintage film noir posters where men whose faces are half-hidden in shadows smirk as they point guns. It's almost as if "Jenna" added them specifically for us.

Then we see a poster for the animated _Alice in Wonderland_ film, and a stuffed crow, and a photo of Edgar Bergen and that pompous, monocled little dummy of his, and we begin to think they ARE there because of us.

"Harvey."

We turn. We are embarrassed to admit that we were so busy gawking that we barely paid attention to the Ghost Dragons, hired goons, and would-be wenches, and so we didn't notice Scarecrow until he said our name. "Crane," we say. "What do you think?"

"The decor suggests they're trying a bit too hard to make us feel welcome. Which is prudent, for should they not be afraid of offending us?"

"Hrm. Anyone else show up yet?"

"Nygma is about somewhere. Jervis, of course. And - "

We stop listening, as our attention is grabbed by a woman who briefly emerges from the throng before vanishing again. A woman with red hair, wearing a revealing green dress. We catch a glimpse of her face, but it's not Ivy. What the hell?

"It's not her," Scarecrow confirms, understanding our distraction. "That's the woman whose name is on the door. She hasn't said much, but I believe her choice of attire is meant as some kind of challenge to Poison Ivy, to show she's not afraid. Fearless, if futile."

"Maybe we'll see how brave she really is," we say as we head in her direction.

We catch up to her beneath a circus advertisement filled with clowns. Evidently some people even today aren't convinced the Joker is dead. We can't exactly blame them. "Nice outfit," we leer.

Jenna, if that was really her name, smiled back at us. "Harvey Two-Face," she says. "Our most prominent guest so far tonight. I'm glad you came. I should thank you for all this."

Preening at the compliment, we're not sure why she wants to thank us. Or why she looks familiar. "For what?"

"We met a few months ago at Starbucks? I was the manager, and you were there with Riddler and - "

"We remember." We would rather we didn't. Time spent with Blake - yech. "Four shots of espresso." Although we can't help think we've seen her somewhere else . . .

Jenna chuckled. "Yes, I'm Jenna Leibowitz, manager and part-owner. I put all my money into opening this club when you told me that Poison Ivy was reopening the Iceberg. I had a feeling that could be a business opportunity."

"For Pammy this could be an opportunity to kill you." The club, plus the hint of curls in her hair, the dress showing plenty of cleavage and leg - it's not a challenge, it's spitting on Ivy's foot.

"Yeah, well, the success Jenna's is going to become, I don't think anyone is going to want to let her ruin things. Besides, Poison Ivy gives us redheads a bad name. It's time one of us stood up to her."

Jenna is obviously crazy. Maybe she's "people like us" after all.

We grin and decide to find a double-malt scotch. Maybe she's into people like us too.

To be continued . . .


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"All right," Bruce said, his voice slipping into the gravel of the Bat for the first time since he'd seen Selina late last night, "now tell me what happened."

Selina smiled. "You know, I would have told you anyway. You didn't need to bring us out here."

_Here_ was the Atlantic Ocean, over a hundred miles east of Gotham. More specifically, here was the _Gatta_, the motor yacht he'd purchased for them for occasions just like this one.

Well, maybe not JUST like this one. The circumstances of their arrival had been a bit out of the ordinary.

Last night Selina had paid her first visits to both the Rydbergii Lounge and its competitor, Jenna's, while Batman was on patrol. He would make his own observations later, but for now he would rely on Selina's impressions. He needed to know which establishment the criminal element was favoring (although he could make an educated guess), what kind of business the clubs were doing, and which was more likely to survive in the long run.

When Batman had returned from patrol that night, however, he had stopped Selina from speaking just as she was about to describe her night. Instead he'd asked, "Are there any urgent problems at either club that I need to know about?"

"Well, there are urgent problems," Selina had said, "but not for you right now, no."

"Good," he'd replied. "You can tell me about it tomorrow. For now get some sleep. We've got a busy day ahead of us."

"We do? With what?"

But Bruce hadn't told her, not even when her questioning became persistent. He'd wanted it to be a surprise. Selina had gone the extra mile for him lately, doing things she really would have preferred not to, simplybecause he had asked. She would have gone to Jenna's and the Rydbergii on her own for the sake of her curiosity, but just for going shoe shopping with Poison Ivy, she deserved this.

He wanted to keep her in the dark for as long as possible, but Bruce had to tell her that morning. "Pack a bag," he'd said. "We're leaving for the marina when you're ready."

"The marina? A little public for the Bat-boat, don't you think?"

"This isn't about a crime or an investigation. This is about us. Pack as if you're going on a two-day cruise. Because that's exactly what we're doing."

The excursion itself was a pleasant surprise for her. The boat itself, and his choice of names, was a greater one. But Bruce suspected that what meant most to Selina was that by taking them on a two-day trip, Bruce thought Gotham could live without Batman for a night. Not because Batman had been notified of a League-related emergency or located a criminal who had fled the city, but because the city was a little safer than it used to be.

It was only after they'd dropped anchor that Bruce finally asked for her observations. "This was the least I could do," he said, "after some of the things I've asked from you over the past few weeks."

"Well, I won't pretend that the afternoon with Ivy was pure torture," Selina replied, "but I'd still say I earned it. Even so, Bruce, this boat, and today, all of it, it's really special. Thank you. I . . . " Stuck for words, she leaned over and kissed his cheek, then gave a playful scratch just below the maskline. "So," she said briskly, ignoring his blush and returning to her seat, "What do you want to hear about first, the Rydbergii or Jenna's?"

"Since we're talking about her anyway, fill me in on how Poison Ivy is doing. If she's managed to make the Rydbergii a success, then I may never have to worry about her giant flytraps ever again."

Selina grimaced. "Yeah, well, I wouldn't hold out hope that Ivan II will be retired permanently. The Rydbergii was a fiasco. She has virtually no customers."

"What do you think is keeping them away? Is it her reputation alone, or did you see anything inside the club that could have driven them off?"

"I'm sure her reputation has a lot to do with it. I know I don't have to remind you of the day we had a drawing room full of Rogues acting like scared parents who just learned a child molester was moving in down the street?"

Bruce grunted. The comparison wasn't that far off, but he preferred not to remember occasions when he had Rogues for guests.

"And the henchmen and gang members follow our lead," Selina went on. "The rogues lead, I mean. Besides, what man would drink anything Ivy puts down in front of him?"

"And her – " His lip twitched. "Management style?"

She hesitated. "You've probably never experienced this yourself, but there are these very rare occasions where she makes you feel sorry for her. Last night was one of them. You should have seen the look on her face when I walked through the door. She practically dragged me by both wrists to my table."

"Did she have anything interesting to say?"

"More like what she didn't say. It took me ten minutes to realize no one had told her about Jenna's."

"She didn't _know_?"

"Pammy never was the best at picking up on things outside her field of vision," Selina pointed out. "And I guess none of the staff was brave enough to be the bearer of bad tidings. I let them off the hook and told her. Since, you know, I have claws and a whip and . . . insurance**.**"

"And how did she take it?"

"She went to her office and closed the door. According to Dove, she does that every night sooner or later. Now denial, _that_ she's always been good at."

Bruce nodded. "So she's not going to last much longer."

"I think it's a race to see what gives out first, the Rydbergii or Ivy. Or Jenna's, for that matter."

"Really," Bruce said thoughtfully.

"You might not think it to look at the place," Selina explained. "Jenna's was packed with criminals . . . and with civilians. They're trying to cater to both groups, and that can't work in the long run."

"I doubt they're actually catering to the Rogues," Bruce said. "The club is probably using them to draw in regular Gothamites."

"And as long as the Rogues don't realize they're there to be gawked at, nobody gets hurt," Selina added. "Of course, the minute somebody gets hurt – and somebody will – the crowds flee and Jenna's is left with nobody but criminals for customers. And not even Oswald was that successful at making them pay their tab."

"They won't have the anti-surveillance measures there that the Penguin had," Bruce said. "We should be able to keep a relatively close eye on Jenna's, and make sure that when someone DOES snap, it's only someone else getting hurt, not getting killed." He smiled slightly. "What you've described sounds like the best-case scenario."

Selina raised an eyebrow. "A lot of innocent people are partying inside a ticking time bomb, and Ivy is about two weeks away from returning to your at-large list. How is this the best-case scenario?"

"When the Rydbergii fails," Bruce admitted, "Ivy will have no reason not to resume her old activities. But when that happens, it'll be a matter of time before she has to relinquish her control over Cobblepot. I didn't try to stop that before because Ivy's 'leadership' has weakened Cobblepot's criminal operations, but I've never intended to let this continue indefinitely. If circumstances don't free him naturally, I will eventually have to step in. The Rydbergii's failure means I won't have to do so. Either way, when the Penguin does comes back to his senses, he'll restore the Iceberg Lounge, and if Jenna's isn't done by that time, it will be when the Rogues move back to their old haunt. And we'll be back to the old status quo. All things considered, that IS the best-case scenario."

"I wonder," Selina murmured. "I mean, strictly speaking, the old status quo died with Joker, didn't it? Iceberg or Rydbergii we're in uncharted waters."

Bruce would have responded, but it was at that moment that the fish started leaping over the boat.

"This isn't normal, is it," Selina observed after twelve dolphins hurdled the _Gatta_ in formation.

"No, it's Arthur," Batman grunted. "Damn it. Now, of all times - If the League needed me that badly, they should have just contacted Barbara."

"Well, it was a nice idea, anyway," Selina replied.

Aquaman emerged from the ocean a few moments later. "Sorry for the dramatics," he said, "but I didn't want to startle anybody."

"So you thought dolphins performing the final number from A Chorus Line off our port bow was the way to drop in without startling anybody?" Selina asked, with the grin she always gave heroes to show she was unimpressed with their flashy entrance.

"What is it, Arthur?" Batman growled.

"No offense, Bruce, but this has nothing to do with you." Arthur looked at Selina. "Actually, I'm here for Selina. I may have a job for her."

* * *

Weeds and greenery forced its way underneath the front doors to Jenna's. Climbing upwards, they worked the bolts free from the hinges, and the doors crashed downward. Poison Ivy stormed over them, a look of incredulous rage on her face. Competition? To HER? Hardly open for long, and already the Rydbergii had to waste money and energy on dealing with some pretentious upstart?!

Ivy wasn't happy. The fact that the A-list Rogues had been spotted here, but not at the new Rydbergii Lounge, made her unhappier. At least Selina had visited once, but she'd been here too, Ivy knew, so it wasn't like she could expect any loyalty from Catwoman.

She was going to be happy when she was through here, though.

She snorted as she entered the establishment and saw the walls. "Pandering to your audience a bit much?" she thought.

"Smart move coming while we're still closed. Wouldn't want to embarrass yourself in front of a crowd."

Ivy's head snapped around.

"And really," Jenna said, dressed casually in jeans and a black sweatshirt. She took in Ivy's clothes. "You do know there are other colors that go with red, right? Oh wait, maybe you don't. Is that why you always wear green, Pammy? To cover up the fact that you know nothing about fashion?"

"Oh, that's good," Ivy retorted. "Dig yourself in a little deeper."

"Ooh, a gardening metaphor. Never saw that coming."

"You're the twit whose name is on the sign?"

Jenna's smile slipped. "As if you don't recognize me."

Ivy blinked. "No, should I?"

"You - you tried to ruin my life!"

"I can hardly believe I only tried. I'm sure I succeeded, whoever you are."

Jenna came closer, which struck Ivy as extraordinarily stupid. She should have kept as much distance as possible between them. "Remember a few years ago? We met at the Iceberg?"

"A lot of people seek out my company. Why would I remember you?" Ivy asked diffidently. Then her eyes narrowed. "Or were you one of those groupies? Perhaps one who presumed to name themselves? Daffodil? Sunflower?"

"Honeysuckle," Jenna said through gritted teeth.

"Dandelion, perhaps?" Ivy mused, not even hearing Jenna. It was hard remembering them all, she'd tried so hard to forget. "The names are practically meaningless to me. It's easier to identify women like you by something notably stupid you did. There was the one who believed the cannibal stories in the Post about Croc, and she thought smelling like a corpse flower would make her 'unappetizing'."

"I was _Honeysuckle_, and I only came to you – "

Ivy laughed merrily, no longer even totally aware there was someone else in the room. Looking back over the years, it was easier to find the humor in their idiocies. There was that one girl who thought Ivy was telling her to perform a deviant sex act, not bring her a specialty mixed drink, when she ordered the ninny to get her a "Demon's Head". Another had gushed about how pretty the trees looked "when they're totally covered with vines and flowers", clearly not understanding that those pretty vines were _killing the trees_.

"And then there was the time . . . " Ivy murmured.

"You're not even listening to me!" Jenna shrieked. "I CAME to you with some very good ideas for improving your schemes, because obviously you were doing something WRONG if you were losing all the time! I was there to HELP YOU, AND YOU FUCKING BLEW ME OFF!!"

Ivy looked at her for a moment, her eyes becoming slightly wider. "Ohh, you're that Honeysuckle girl!"

Jenna growled. "If you'd only listened, you would have admitted how clever I was, and how the key piece you'd been missing was having me as - "

"My assistant," Ivy said. Her lips trembled as she fought against a laugh. "You're THAT groupie! Sure, get someone to hire you by telling them how wrong they are. That's clever all right!"

"A little helpful criticism never hurt anybody," Jenna grumbled.

Ivy finally stopped trying to hold that cackle in. She wiped an eye. "How could I have forgotten you?"

"I don't know," Jenna shot back. "It's not like THAT many people could have wanted to talk to you over the years."

All humor Ivy had found in the situation vanished. "You were arrogant, full of yourself, demanding, and foolish."

"Gee, that doesn't sound like anyone else in this room."

"You had the utter _gall_ to expect me to hire you as some kind of trainee! You didn't just talk about my supposed flaws, you even gave a five-minute presentation on how you would fix them! Where did you think you were, _The Apprentice_?"

"My ideas were good!" Jenna retorted. "You were just too proud to admit it!"

"And you were too stupid to give up," Ivy recalled. "You kept harassing me at the Lounge!"

"I wasn't harassing you, I was showing my determination to get one foot in the door!"

"Oh, for - you don't become a henchwench by following the rules in a job-search strategies book!"

Jenna folded her arms and sneered at Ivy. "Yes, you'd rather have a sidekick who's a total incompetent that doesn't have a single thought in that empty head of hers!"

As Ivy had thought, Jenna had been quite foolish to get close to her. Because Ivy slapped her.

"You don't talk about Harley that way to my face," Ivy said icily, thinking unhappily of a woman on the other side of town still drowning in grief. "And a nobody like you doesn't dare challenge someone of my stature. I want this club shut down, and I want you out of Gotham. Tomorrow."

Jenna held a hand to her cheek, but her eyes weren't afraid. "No."

"_No?!_"

"You had me blackballed from the Iceberg."

"I did no such thing. You can't behave like that and expect the management to keep letting you in the door."

"Then you found where I lived. It looked like a mold and mildew bomb went off when I got home that night. Everything I owned was ruined, and I had to pay the landlord for cleaning the place!"

Ivy looked at her blankly. "I can't imagine why I would have done such a thing. I have better things to do with my time than target clinging fools like yourself. Perhaps one of my plants acted on its own initiative. They're so good at sensing the source of my displeasure."

"They've probably had practice. You were always one of those women who's never happy with anything."

"Whatever happened to your apartment," Ivy hissed, "I can do much worse to you the second time around. Just ask Roxy Rocket."

Jenna shook her head and smiled. "No, Pammy. You can't do anything to me at all."

Ivy's hand lashed out and grabbed the front of Jenna's sweater. "And why not?"

"Because you do anything to me or this club, and my investors and I will press charges _and_ slap you with a civil suit so fast, you won't even have time to call your lawyer before they're shipping you off to Arkham or prison," Jenna said smugly. "Try running the Rydbergii from inside a cell. God, when I found out that you were so clueless, so _stupid_ as to think you could run a nightclub? That's when I knew you were handing me a stick to beat you with."

Ivy didn't let go of Jenna, and her face hardened.

"Go ahead, hit me again," Jenna dared her. "I'll bring you up on assault charges in an hour." She smiled. "It sucks being a law-abiding citizen, doesn't it? You can't just throw your weight and lousy personality around and not pay the consequences. Like being inside Arkham while whatever you've done to Oswald Cobblepot wears off."

"I haven't - " Ivy just barely managed to control her surprise. That wasn't something she'd thought about. If she was away from Penguin for more than a few days, a week tops, he'd come to his senses, and all her work would be undone in an instant. No one seemed to care about what she'd done to Oswald, but if he started screaming to the press and the police that she'd drugged and brainwashed him, they'd have to.

She let go of Jenna.

"You can go now," Jenna said, pleased. "Just remember - you do anything to me or my place, and no matter how clever you think you've been, they'll know it was you. The Batman, now - he'll be sure to find out what that horrible Poison Ivy has done to that poor defenseless businesswoman."

Ivy was so infuriated by Jenna's arrogance that she almost couldn't breathe. She _really_ wanted to go this route? "You think I can't touch you, but I can," she promised Jenna. "I'll beat you in the worst way you can imagine. The Rydbergii is going to succeed while your little hole-in-the-wall sinks like a stone!"

Jenna just shook her head. "After all this time, and you still think you can make something happen by wishing it so."

"That wasn't a wish. That was a promise."

* * *

Talia sat on the plane and wondered, as she often had in the past, how she had gotten here.

She had boarded a plane in Gotham, one of a series of flights that would take her to her father's home in Outer Mongolia. The final few days in Gotham had been a nightmare. There had been the dirty looks and snide remarks from every other stranger who crossed her path, not to mention the contemptuous dismissal by her Beloved when she had given him a broken and bankruptedLioncorp as a gift (as she'd planned from the moment she assumed control of the company, of course).

The fitting conclusion had been a drunken sexual encounter with one of Beloved's enemies, a man so incompetent that he TOLD the police whom he was going to rob next! (How this man had become one of the most respected and feared criminals in Gotham was beyond her.)

By then she had become so emotionally overwhelmed that her only option was to leave the cursed city behind her, return home, go to her father, and allow him to send her to some place where she could be useful to him, and not have to think about what happened in Gotham.

And everything had gone according to plan until her father told her that he needed her in . . . Gotham.

There had been other times where her father had sent her on missions that had made no sense to her at all, but then he would explain and she would finally understand. That was not the case this time. Oh certainly, she understood WHY he wanted her go to Gotham. She just didn't understand how this could possibly have happened to her.

While officially Ra's al-Ghul had allowed Gr'oriBr'di to remain in charge of his Gotham operations in the wake of twenty members of DEMON being sent to prison for an unauthorized assassination, privately he wasn't entirely satisfied with Gr'oriBr'di's vague explanation that he had been "greened". Being under the influence of narcotics was hardly an excuse! Therefore, he wished for his daughter to go to Gotham, seduce Gr'oriBr'di, and learn the real reason why this debacle had occurred. If the real reason wasn't good enough – well, it was no coincidence that Il'Nar was a trained assassin.

Talia had been so dumbfounded that she'd fallen back on her instinctive response, an obedient acceptance of his wishes and a quick retreat from his presence. It was not until after she'd boarded his private plane that she'd begun to process what had happened to her. She had returned home, looking for solace and guidance from her father . . . and he had shipped her back to Gotham to offer some lackey her _body_?

She had devoted years of her life to the pursuit of her Beloved, the greatest man in Gotham and second only to her father in the whole world. But now that she had suffered her latest, most final rejection, her father's response was to send her back to HIS city and make one of his servants there her new target. He might as well have asked her to sleep with _Ulstarn_.

This mental image was like a splash of cold water in her face . . . or perhaps a torrent from a fire hose in her eye. Revolted, Talia asked herself for the first time – did she really want to do as her father had asked her? And if not, would she do it anyway?

She swallowed. No, she did not want to whore herself to this man who had exercised such poor judgment as to share his base of operations with that pathetic Riddler! And while she had denied her desires in the past to obey her father, she could not bring herself to do it here. Not in Gotham, not with this man who was not Beloved. And not mere days after she had slept with another man not because her father commanded her to, but because she had _wanted_ to. All right, so she'd been drunk at the time and her choice of partners had been less than wise, but this did not change the fact that the experience itself had been new and exciting and not unpleasant.

If Talia did what her father had asked, she might never have that kind of experience again.

But if she refused her father's command, she might never be able to return to him. What then? What were her other options? She supposed she could try to make it on her own, but frankly the idea terrified her. She had not been brought up that way. She had been raised to find the proper man, support him, and follow his wishes.

That, then, was her only choice. Talia would find a new protector. The only problem with that was she would need to limit her search to the city of Gotham. Sooner or later her father would send men after her. She would be safest in Gotham, an object of such superstitious dread for almost everyone in DEMON that few would dare to look for her there. But who could she find there? Beloved clearly was out, as long as that wicked she-creature had him under her spell. Gr'oriBr'di would have been an intriguing option – she couldn't really fault him for his ties to the Riddler, not when she'd _slept_ with the man – if it wasn't for the fact that he was the man her father told her to seduce. So who else was there?

When her plane landed in Gotham, she still didn't know.

* * *

When Ivy's hour was up and she left Harley's cell, she found Dr. Bartholomew waiting for her. She'd been planning to speak with him anyway, preferably in his office where she might indulge in raising her voice a bit. Out here in the hallway, however, she didn't have that luxury. As someone pretending to be an upstanding businesswoman and pillar of the community hoping to generate some goodwill in the wake of the Rydbergii's - slow start, Ivy didn't want to be seen as a hysterical, overemotional harridan.

Not being able to vent was a petty frustration, but on top of what had already been an awful day, it grated on her tattered nerves. "Doctor," she snapped, limiting herself to one small, and very menacing, step forward. "Why isn't she getting better? How can you expect your patients to stop escaping if your track record is like this?"

Dr. Bartholomew adjusted his collar. "Psychiatry isn't about short-term solutions, Ivy. You know this yourself. It's a long-term process where patients gradually - "

"Save me the textbook answer," Ivy hissed. "Yes, gradually, but she's gradually getting _worse_! When's the last time she wasn't in a padded cell, Doctor? When's the last time she wasn't in a straitjacket? Gaia, she can't be that much of a danger to herself!"

"It's a precaution. She's becoming increasingly erratic. That may even be a good sign, it's an improvement on persistent catatonia."

"You're just grasping at straws, Doctor," Ivy said. "Doesn't the situation call for a change in her treatment?"

"I realize you care about her, but her doctors are a better judge of what is appropriate for her at this time. There's even been talk," he said calmly, "of discontinuing your visitation rights. Clearly, if she's getting worse as you say, you're not helping her."

A month ago, Ivy would have exploded at the suggestion, but now she just looked at him and wondered if that would be such a bad thing.

That morning had been bad. Recently the Lounge's already pitiful nightly receipts had been sliced in half, and Ivy had no idea why until Selina had enlightened her about the opening of "Jenna's". Ivy had been clinging fiercely to the premise that given enough time, the customers would return because they had no other option. She'd been cruelly disabused of that notion, however.

And then Jenna had thrown it in Ivy's face that she had few responses available to her that wouldn't get her thrown in jail. Ivy had stormed out promising that the Rydbergii would end up beating the pants off Jenna's, but she could admit later that she had absolutely no idea how she was going to accomplish that.

Not knowing where else to go, she's gone to Arkham to see Harley. She couldn't say why. She couldn't say why the last dozen times either. Spending time with Harley - severely depressed, monosyllabic, self-loathing Harley - always left her feeling uneasy, drained, and helpless. Maybe she just hoped that the next visit would finally be the one where Harley smiled and told her she'd succeed. Maybe that was why she'd been going more than ever. Because she had no one else to go to.

But this was something Ivy would never admit to.

"I have to keep coming. No one else cares. I'm sure she has no other visitors. I'm all she has. If I don't look out for her, who will?" She managed not to choke on the irony of that statement.

Leland looked at her more closely. "Are you all right, Pamela?You've been looking tired. You know, if you ever need to talk - "

She cut him off, laughing sardonically. "Oh yes, doctor, I'm sure you would _love_ to get me back on your couch again." She rubbed her eyes. Damn it, she was standing in the middle of Arkham Asylum _voluntarily_ and being pitied by the likes of "Doctor Bart". What had happened to her life? "I have to use the ladies' room."

"Oh. Well, I can have - "

"Trust me, I know where it is," she snarled. "I just have something in my eye." Turning her back on him, she marched off to the nearest rest room.

Ivy stopped midway, however, and leaned against the wall. She suddenly felt so weary. No, she felt _old_. She never felt old. Goddesses didn't GET old. So again she asked herself what had become a very good question: what had happened to her life? How had she allowed this to happen?

Well, there was a perfectly obvious answer to that question, but she didn't want to think it. She would NEVER have any regrets about the night Joker died. It was a red-letter day, a glorious event that would be enshrined in sonnets and ballads one day. A hideous weed had been uprooted from the mortal coil, and it had been long overdue. That night Harley was freed forever from the Joker's abuse, and Ivy was doubly blessed when an enormous money-making opportunity fell into her lap.

All because Harley gave the word, and Ivy didn't try to stop it. How appropriate had that been? The most successful moment of their partnership!

So Ivy refused to consider the notion that so many of the bad things in her life now stemmed from that glorious day. The things that weighed her down, tired her out, and oppressed her soul were due to outside agents, and through no fault of her own! That bitch Jenna was ruining her club, forcing her to devote all her time to the business and none to protecting the plants! Harley's doctors were failing at their jobs!

_None of this was her fault!_

Ivy put a hand to her face and found, to her displeasure, that her mascara was running. Why did she come here when seeing Harley made her sad?

So Ivy resumed her progress toward the ladies' room. At her destination, however, she discovered a most unusual obstacle.

The entrance was completely covered in ice.

Staring in disbelief, Ivy tentatively knocked on the ice. It was real, it was thick, it was . . .

_Victor_.

Her rational thought process shut down. An ocean of bottled-up rage had had enough. She didn't know why Fries had become the latest person to shit on her life. She didn't care. There couldn't be a reason good enough to save him from her wrath. Ivy spun and ran down the hall like the Bat himself was after her. Shocked faces barely registered as she charged towards the specially refrigerated cell of Mr. Freeze, her face a mask of fury.

Ivy finally skidded to a stop outside his cell. Fries was sitting to one side, doing nothing. It figured, he was such a boring, lifeless husk of a man! And she was supposed to be vibrant, full of life! How the _fuck_ did she feel as bad as he looked?

Just for that, he deserved to die like any other man did. He looked up at her, surprised. "Ivy?"

"Victor," she said sweetly. "Wait right there. I'm coming in."

"Er, perhaps there's something I could help you with without you having to do that?"

"Only if you can come out here so I can strangle you."

Victor had the nerve to act befuddled, Ivy saw, as if he didn't know why she was there! "I apologize for not visiting your new Lounge yet," he said uneasily, "but I've been stuck in here, you see, and - "

And now he was taunting her with her lack of customers! Ivy let loose a shriek of fury and jabbed a finger in his direction. "You froze the door to the ladies' room solid!"

Ivy could almost hear crickets chirping as Victor stared at her.

"I did what?" he finally asked, his lip twitching.

"I don't know how you knew I'd be going there after I left Harley, but I don't deserve your petty little pranks . . . and . . . " Ivy started losing steam as the words coming out of her mouth even sounded silly to her.

"There's a problem with the vents piping coolant into my cell," Victor explained calmly - much more calmly than her. "There's a leak somewhere, and I am told there are random patches of ice and frost all over the asylum. What you are describing is no more than a freak coincidence. It has nothing to do with you." The look in his eyes suggested he could have added something more, but chose not to.

Ivy became aware that there were in fact a few glistening spots along the floor and the ceiling of the corridor. She also became quite mortifyingly aware of the employees and patients staring at her. "I suppose that makes sense," she admitted grudgingly.

"So you won't be strangling me?"

She narrowed her eyes. "Don't push it, Victor."

"My apologies. I'm told you're here more often as a visitor now than you were as a patient."

Ivy snorted. "Hardly. I only pay Harley an occasional visit. Although I can't imagine why I bother. She's never herself any longer."

Victor nodded somberly. "She lost the one she loved, Ivy. I have - some idea of how difficult that can be."

"Please. From what I hear, at least Nora was a loving spouse. The Joker was an abusive animal. She should have gotten over him long ago."

"That's irrelevant. All that matters is how SHE felt for HIM. And we both know how strong that was." He paused. "You're not seriously considering ending your visits?"

"Why shouldn't I?" Ivy asked defensively. "I always feel worse when I leave than I did when I arrived. And she never gets any better. At this rate, I'll end up as depressed as she is!" Her shoulders suddenly felt lighter. It seemed so obvious. Instead of always asking herself why she kept coming back, why not just end it? Who cared why? Sooner or later she had to get better, and since Ivy's visits evidently weren't making any difference, why go on torturing herself?

"Ivy," Victor replied, "it shouldn't be about what makes you feel better. It should be about what makes HER feel better."

"Clearly I'm not doing that."

"Have you considered what she'd be like if you _weren't_ seeing her? With the Joker gone, you're the only thing left from her life that ever mattered to her. If she loses you too, what would she have left to live for?" Victor sighed. "I have no special fondness for my fellow Rogues, but I wouldn't wish my life on any of them. Would you wish mine on her?"

Ivy didn't have a response to that. _Of course_ she wouldn't, but why should she still be compelled to punish herself like this?

Not getting an answer from her, Victor shrugged and retreated into the back of his cell. Ivy stared at his back for a moment before turning away and heading toward the exit.

She'd come back one more time. Just to say goodbye. But that was it.

To be continued . . .


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

He should have been enjoying himself more, Sir Edmund Dorrance reflected. But he was not.

That insane weakling Hugo Strange had actually succeeded. He had come to King Snake with a request for funding. He had a scheme, he said, that would render Batman useless as a crime fighter. He was convinced that he could successfully implant a suggestion in Batman's mind. A suggestion, Strange claimed, that could be activated by the use of a specific code word. It would cause Batman to halt any attempt to apprehend the speaker.

Strange had a reputation in the Gotham underworld for being a crackpot and a pervert, but it was also conceded that he had a knack for exploiting the human mind. There was a chance Strange might succeed. Eventually he chose to underwrite the mad doctor's plan.

Dorrance could admit that Strange had also successfully appealed to his vanity. With the disappearance of the Penguin and the ineffective leadership of his replacement Poison Ivy, King Snake had become the head of the pre-eminent criminal organization in Gotham. He was also the only man Strange could approach whose financial resources were so great that he wouldn't even feel the pinch from Strange's request.

King Snake didn't respond to flattery, but he did respond to the truth. It had pleased him that his new status had not gone unnoticed, and so he cut Strange a check. If nothing came of it . . . well, as the doctor said, he wouldn't feel the pinch.

Surprisingly, the money had been well-spent. Strange had returned with a smile and a word – "flehmen". The following night, one of Dorrance's Ghost Dragons committed a minor and very clumsy robbery. The Bat noticed, the Bat attacked – and with a single word, the Bat withdrew. In the few nights since, the Ghost Dragons had been hitting targets all over Gotham, and in every case where Batman appeared, "flehmen" was a success every time.

And Dorrance was the only criminal in Gotham with this knowledge. With that kind of advantage, he could almost guarantee that the Ghost Dragons would spread through Gotham in the months to come, swallowing up all its competition and putting the city in a stranglehold. It was, without a doubt, a tremendous coup.

But Dorrance couldn't enjoy it. Well, to be honest, he _had_ been enjoying himself, but all that ended . . . not long after he entered Jenna's and took his seat by the wall.

There were two reasons for this. One was that the waitstaff was dishonoring his Ghost Dragons. A Ghost Dragon always paid his debts in full. Crime was just another form of business. In business you paid your creditors in a timely manner, or you failed. He expected his "employees" to do the same. Not paying meant you were untrustworthy, unreliable, or impoverished. None of these were the images Dorrance wanted his Ghost Dragons to convey.

When several Dragons had attempted to pay their monthly tab earlier tonight, however, they were rebuffed. Their money was no good in Jenna's, they had been told. "It's company policy," the manager had said, which Dorrance thought a very odd statement. What kind of company would have a policy of refusing payment? The Dragons didn't care about any of that, they just wanted to satisfy their honor. But the fools here didn't seem to _get_ that.

While this in and of itself was a nuisance, there was a larger problem. Dorrance might have been blind, but that didn't prevent him from sensing things around him. What he sensed was a subtle shift by the other club patrons. The ones who weren't criminals, to be specific.

When the Iceberg Lounge was still in business, ordinary Gothamites or tourists sometimes visited. They didn't come for the food or the liquor or the décor, of course. They came to look at people like him. They came for the dark, voyeuristic thrill of being close to dangerous felons and deranged psychopaths. But they did so at their own risk. The Iceberg had always been a somewhat lawless establishment, and the Rogues held the balance of power. So law-abiding citizens knew that they were inviting injury or death by coming.

Therefore it was to be expected that Jenna's would be something similar, and it was. Lately, however, there was something different. It was something in the way people talked, in the way people invaded his personal space.

Mainly it was something missing - fear. King Snake suspected that many customers had forgotten to be afraid of Jenna's more notorious visitors – and that the club itself had encouraged this. Familiarity bred contempt, and the longer these young, upwardly mobile immortals were in close quarters with the worst menaces in Gotham without incident, the more relaxed they'd get. He could hear the subtle hint of condescension in their voices. It was as if they'd concluded that these psychopaths and ganglords weren't that scary after all.

And since Jenna's was obviously catering to these people, by the way their numbers grew every night, it wanted them to come, spend their money, and see the tamed criminals.

Was King Snake to ignore this affrontery for a few free drinks?

Dorrance stood up. "Let's go," he told the nearest Dragons. "If they won't take our money, well - I think I've become too big for this establishment anyway."

From the talk around him, King Snake didn't think any one even noticed them leave. That convinced him not to return again.

He'd just have to find somewhere else for his Dragons to entertain themselves. Once more it was a pity that Poison Ivy had driven the Iceberg into the ground.

_____________________________

Poison Ivy had spent much of her adult life disputing the belief that she was insane. She was just fully committed to a cause that nobody else understood. To the small minds and callous hearts of the world, plants were merely a resource to be exploited. Because she contradicted that selfish, narrow-minded view, she was deemed insane.

Still, if you believed in the popular definition of insanity as doing something over and over again and expecting a different result, then Ivy supposed she was insane.

Why else did she open the Rydbergii Lounge night after night to sparse crowds, letting it hemorrhage cash and drain the profits from her black market operations?

Why else had she driven herself to Arkham every week only to see Harley wilt and droop like a rose without sunlight or water?

It was always the same. Neither made her happy. Why did she persist in the belief that it would?

Maybe she needed a therapist.

"Ms. Isley?"

Ivy looked up from her desk. By now she didn't spend much time on the floor any longer. Even she had to acknowledge that her customers, for some unfathomable reason, didn't like talking to her. "Yes, Raven?" she asked wearily.

"There's someone at the bar you're going to want to see," the hostess said nervously. "There was no way to stop him from coming in."

"Who, Batman?"

"No, it's - it's Matt Hagen, Ms. Isley."

Ivy's head snapped up. Lately she'd found that her temper had become wildly unpredictable. Certain things that would have infuriated her a year ago were now shrugged off, while other things still set her off instantly. This, apparently, was one of the latter examples. "Clayface has dared to show himself in MY club?!"

Raven backed away.

Storming out of her office, Ivy headed for the bar with a full head of steam. She didn't notice how empty the establishment was because she didn't care about the people who weren't there. Just the person who was.

"Hagen," she snarled, seeing the massive, slovenly bulk at HER bar.

"Pammy," he murmured without turning around.

"You will leave now if the walls themselves have to come alive and throw you out!"

"Really, Pammy? Is that what you want the twenty people in here to see? You throwing a paying customer out for no reason?" Clayface chuckled. "You run a business like that, I can see why it's empty."

Ivy approached him and jabbed a finger into his soft mass. "I don't care if the entire _block_ sees!" she hissed at him. "I will not allow you to sit there and pretend to drink when you're only here to mock me and take pleasure in my problems!"

Clayface finally faced her, even if it just meant his back becoming his front by virtue of the eyes and mouth that appeared there. "Women always think they're mind readers, don't they?" he asked, outraging her further. "Actually, I have reasons to be here besides witnessing your humiliation."

"You have to the count of three," Ivy growled.

"Barkeep, I'd like to open a tab."

"One."

"A round of drinks for everyone! Here, this oughta cover it."

"T - " Ivy stopped as Clayface tossed a stack of bills her way. "This is ten thousand dollars," she said blankly.

"That tab I mentioned? Put that on it. I expect to be coming here a lot in the future."

Ivy scowled at him. "So that's your game?" she asked bitterly. "You think I'm so desperate for ten grand in cash that I'll let you come in here every night and 'witness my humiliation'."

Clayface smiled. "No, I don't think you're that desperate. But if I paid you ten grand every month? Yeah, I think you're desperate enough for that."

Her pride rebelled.

Well, it was more like a minor peasant uprising. It was brutally smashed by her need for additional cash flow.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, staving off the unpleasant moment where she would have to (temporarily) put aside her longstanding grudge.

"Let me tell you a little story," Clayface told her. "I was sitting in a bar in Metropolis when I heard the news that the Iceberg Lounge in Gotham was reopening under new management. When I heard the new management was you, I figured that was it. You blacklisted me from Gotham, and any hope I had of returning to this city was gone if you were running the Iceberg from now on. Just more traveling back and forth between places like Metropolis and Star City and Keystone."

Ivy glared at him. Yes, Clayface forever the wandering exile, that would have been very nice.

"And then later," he went on, "I find out that you're running this place into the ground."

"I do not appreciate this story," Ivy snapped.

"So I think to myself, 'This is an opportunity. If all the other Rogues are drinking somewhere else because they don't want to deal with Pammy's shit on a nightly basis, I have the opening I need to return to Gotham.'."

"Yes, I'm glad this has worked out so well for you."

Clayface looked at her consideringly. "It could work out for you too, you know."

"Excuse me?" Ivy said.

"Well, come on, I can amuse myself at your expense, but that's only a short-term solution. The Lounge shuts down, you go back to being the most disturbed woman in Gotham, the status quo returns, and I'm out again," Clayface reasoned. "But if I helped you keep this place open, you'd HAVE to bury the hatchet with me for good."

Ivy sneered at him. "Oh, so now you're here to save me. Thank Gaia a man has come to do what a woman possibly couldn't."

"Catwoman could," Clayface replied casually.

That shut her up.

"Look, everyone in Gotham knows that you don't get along with me any better than you do the _Joker_. If word gets out that I'm drinking here instead of that Jenna's place everyone else is going to, you think some people might say, 'Hey, if it's safe for him, maybe it's safe for us too'?"

Ivy pondered what he was saying for a moment. "What exactly are you offering me?" she asked finally.

"Wow, Pammy. That's the most reasonable tone you've ever used with me."

"Hagen."

"Right, right. I give you ten thousand a month until this place is in the black again. I figure by that time, I can drink here for free for the rest of the century. I'll socialize, I won't start fights, I'll let the tourists see the former film star and current mudman. You treat me right. I'm not asking to be friends, but you can stop looking at me and talking to me like I'm the lowest form of life on the planet. And next time Harley arranges one of those Rogue Karaoke nights, I get an invitation," Clayface told her.

She felt a pang as she wondered if Harley would ever be doing that again. "It's - not a bad offer," she admitted. Better than what she expected at first. Still . . . "I'll take it on one condition."

"What?" he asked suspiciously.

When she'd finished speaking, Clayface looked at her for a few seconds. Then he smiled. "And here I thought you were just going to give me a lot of petty orders to satisfy your pride. Common sense from you, Pammy? I think you've learned from when I saw you last."

Ivy smiled tightly and clutched her money harder.

___________________________

Eddie made a "tsk, tsk" sound at the mirror while he straightened his tie. He'd always known King Snake was blind, but was he deaf as well? It was the only way Eddie could imagine why the Ghost Dragons leader would ever have gone into business with a complete nimrod like Hugo Strange – because he could neither see nor hear the demented old fart.

And the plan! Brainwashing Batman in a fucking _day spa?_ King Snake had demeaned himself just by associating his name with such a cliché! Frankly, the Bat had done the gang leader a favor by throwing him in jail along with his cronies. On the outside King Snake would have had to deal with the looks and remarks (well, maybe not the looks, he _was_ blind) of his betters.

"Betters" meaning people like himself . . . or Selina.

Eddie frowned. Where _was_ she anyway? As appalling as the notion of a Hugo Strange day spa was, the crackpot scheme had happened to coincide in a lucky way with an event he was very much interested in. The MOMA was exhibiting the latest sculpture by James Sanborn, the man behind the giant code sculpture outside CIA headquarters. It was a puzzle physically larger than himself, and it was priceless. What better target could there be?

Unfortunately, Batman would see it that way too. There'd be no point even leaving the letter at the signal, because the hero would already know where Eddie would be.

One answer, Eddie had deduced, was a party to be held at the MOMA. If Batman was going to be at the museum one way or another, let him be out of costume and in the guise of Bruce Wayne. That would buy him some time, but not enough. It was only part of the answer. He'd need a distraction too.

That distraction could have been Selina. He'd had a notion to point her towards Strange's attempt to rewire Bruce's brain, and let the fur fly. Bruce would have been too busy with her to worry about him. Eddie's idea had encountered two formidable obstacles, however, and he'd abandoned it. The simple reason was that she was out of town, and he didn't know where she'd went. This was not exactly something you could put into motion over the _phone_.

The larger problem was that he realized Selina would not appreciate it when she found out later. His friend's wrath was troubling enough. Coupled with the knowledge that he had betrayed her by sleeping with the "spawn" Selina loathed so much, the Riddler was feeling much too guilty to mess with her head.

Eddie sighed. Talia. It was bad enough that she was high on Selina's list of least favorite people. But also because of Talia, he'd learned that Selina was dating Batman, something he had been much happier not knowing. He blamed her for the discovery, since he never would have begun to suspect Bruce Wayne was Batman if she hadn't let something slip. It would have been so much easier if the evening with Talia had been a total disaster.

He was forced to admit, however, that even now, he couldn't look back on the night as a complete loss. Talia would never have made a suitable girlfriend, but just for the one night, she could have been worse. She could have been a lot worse, in fact – she could have been one of those groupies of his. Why did he only attract the idiots?

Of course Doris, he reminded himself, had been the furthest thing from an idiot. She was also the furthest thing from Talia, and frankly that was the main reason why Talia would never have worked for him. She could never have measured up to Doris. He wasn't sure anybody could. And he sighed again.

As for his professional life, Eddie was unfortunately forced to conclude that the MOMA party wouldn't work as a time for a heist. He'd have to show up another night after hours with a crew of heavy lifters, and hope for the best. At least the presence of other individuals would force Batman to remain "Batman". Thinking of him as "Batman" was frightening. Thinking of him as "Bruce" or "Selina's boyfriend" was an utter nightmare. The two of them would have to remain in their assigned roles, if Eddie had any hope of continuing to face his rival in their battle of wits. Any slim, weak, faint whisper of a hope.

For now, he'd crash the party anyway. A little personal reconnaissance never hurt anybody. And he'd look good doing it. Who knew? A party at the MOMA might be just the thing to draw Selina back.

___________________________________________

It had been a long, _long_ week, but as Talia huddled in the back seat of a disgusting taxicab that she couldn't even afford, she reflected that it would all be worth it in an hour or two.

Talia had allowed herself to be escorted to Gr'oriBr'di after arriving in Gotham. There had definitely been something interesting about the man, and in other circumstances she might have enjoyed seducing him with her wiles. Now, however, any thought of that had been completely ruined. She might tell herself she was pursuing Gr'oriBr'di for her own reasons, but she would still be following her father's orders. This she could no longer bring herself to do.

At the conclusion of their brief meeting, Talia had done something quite shocking. She had _lied_ to one of her father's lieutenants. Even worse, her lie was that her father had orders for Gr'oriBr'di to turn over to her whatever funds he had available. She had _misused her father's power for her own ends_.

Well, if that wasn't an act of rebellion, she didn't know what was.

Gr'oriBr'di only had a mere few thousand dollars, unfortunately. Talia had settled for this puny amount and left "on a mission of her own". She allowed him to think that it was a mission from her father. If Gr'oriBr'di only knew what her father's mission was, he would have _loved_ to think that was what she was doing.

Instead, Talia took refuge in a miserable hostel where her father would never think to look for her, a "Holiday Inn".

Since then, Talia had tried to clear her mind by indulging in those things she found relaxing. Five days of good food and spa treatment, though, had failed to produce the desired result. She could not think of an appropriate protector to attach herself to. Oh, of course, she could target any of a hundred millionaires in the city and make him hers with ease, but they could not protect her from the might of her father. Besides, she would not let herself be viewed as some common _gold-digger_.

The millionaire she did want, well, that was different. For him she would even let herself be viewed as some kind of _whore_.

But who else was there? Who else could offer her the money and power she needed? Who else in this dirty city was respected?

She still didn't know, and the money had almost run out. Increasingly nervous, Talia had sneaked into the fringes of Chinatown, the stalls and open-air markets where men dealt in obviously stolen goods, in order to learn if there were any rumors concerning DEMON. Perhaps a search for a beautiful young woman of good breeding?

Instead she'd learned something more distressing. Her Beloved had been behaving erratically for the past week, allowing ordinary thieves to escape! The rest of the rumors had been jumbled – typical superstitious Chinese, they spoke of dragons and ghosts and snakes, and no one could agree on whether Beloved was alive or dead. But everyone agreed that some kind of _day spa_ was involved.

Talia had gone to this day spa only a half-hour before to investigate, but there she had an unpleasant encounter with an _impostor_ dressed as Beloved. And like Beloved, he had an unhealthy fixation on cats! "Noblest creatures on earth", ha!

She had an epiphany at that moment. The Cat-slut had used _sorcery_ on Beloved to make him enamored of cats. But the spell had gone awry somehow, and now anyone who wore the costume of the Bat was similarly affected!

It had been the proof she needed. She had left the spell-addled fool behind, hailed the nearest taxi, and ordered the driver to take her to the Gotham Museum of Modern Art. The Wayne Foundation was holding a function that evening, according to a half-dozen advertisements she'd seen at the Holiday Inn. Beloved had to be there. Once she revealed the Hell-cat's perfidy, Beloved would realize her worth, banish the bitch, pay Talia's fare, and then take her to live with him at his manor – no, his castle!

And she would be princess to his prince, just like she'd imagined as a girl, all those many, many years ago.

_____________________________________

It had been a long week, but as Bruce made his way to the bar, he knew none of it would matter any more once Selina made her first appearance.

While Arthur had interrupted their weekend getaway, he wasn't so rude as to ask Selina to return to Atlantis with him that very minute. He simply requested that she visit him at the first opportunity. Selina had little firsthand experience with Aquaman, so after Arthur had left, she asked him where the Atlantean king rated on the scale of "super-schmuckery".

Bruce hadn't risen to the bait, and told her that Arthur was one of the most sensible members of the League, with a low tolerance for bullshit or arrogance.

"So better than Diana?" Selina had teased.

"Much better," Bruce had said dryly.

The weekend jaunt had ended on schedule, and Bruce reflected that the most enjoyable part was that he was _able_ to enjoy it, instead of fixating on the time away from Gotham and obsessing over the crimes he'd failed to prevent. He was under no illusions that Gotham had magically become a safe place, but Bruce suddenly found he could live his life without worrying that his city was six inches from the precipice.

Afterwards, however, a quite curious Selina had changed into her costume and left for Atlantis, by way of the teleporter pads in the Batcave and the Watchtower. He had watched her go, wondering darkly what Arthur wanted her to steal.

Her departure had come at a welcome time, as it turned out. Bruce Wayne had been lured in an unsubtle manner to an obvious trap at a brand-new day spa. The perpetrators _thought_ that they'd successfully implanted Bruce with a code word that would cause him to call off pursuit if uttered. The fact that they tried to use their knowledge of Bruce's secret identity meant it had to be Hugo Strange.

Bruce corrected himself. Theoretically it _could_ have been Riddler, he realized now, but it had been obvious for several reasons that it was Hugo. The use of hypnosis was a Strange hallmark, and a Rogue of Nygma's standing would never have stooped to such an obvious ploy. Still, Bruce would have to keep in mind that even though the Riddler would never reveal the secret, Nygma was still capable of using that secret against him.

At any rate, Bruce had let Strange think that the plan had worked. Hugo didn't have the kind of financial resources needed to make this scheme happen, and Bruce needed to find out who his backer was. As only Ghost Dragons used the code word, it quickly became clear that King Snake was his man. It was an unpleasant discovery. A year ago King Snake couldn't have afforded to bankroll someone like Strange. While it was a clear sign that Penguin's empire had declined since Ivy took over, his competitors had moved faster than Bruce would have liked.

Dorrance was paying more than he bargained for now, though. Strange was in Arkham, the day spa was shut down, and King Snake had joined the Ghost Dragons who _thought_ they'd escaped in Blackgate. It had been a successful operation for Bruce, even if the act of temporarily letting those Dragons go had been distasteful.

And while he had felt Selina's absence, he suspected she would not have taken Strange's plan well. Considering how angry she'd been when Strange tried something similar with Nygma, she would have been positively furious about this, and she probably would have insisted on a large role in the investigation. While Bruce always appreciated her help, he didn't think it would be a good idea if Selina went off to shove something up Strange's nose.

So the crisis was averted, and Selina had notified Alfred she would be returning to Gotham that night. She was probably on the way to the MOMA this very moment. Still, Bruce wouldn't completely relax until she was with him.

He felt a feminine hand touch him on the arm, and he turned, half-expecting Selina's plane had landed early. So it was with an appalled start that he realized _Talia al-Ghul_ was clutching his sleeve.

"Beloved, I had to come," she whispered dramatically. "I have discovered terrible, horrible news! It could not wait another moment, you have to be told! Tonight I – "

"You're wrinkling the Dolce & Gabbana," he growled.

Talia let go of his arm, suddenly struck mute. Bruce in turn grabbed _her_ arm and dragged her towards a more secluded part of the museum. Normally he enjoyed spending time with her as much as he did a sharp stick in the eye, but there was something he wanted to say to her.

"Beloved," Talia repeated before he could speak. "I heard of your recent troubles today, and when I went to this day spa to investigate, I encountered this – this _impostor _dressed as you! And he was spouting some _nonsense_ about how cats are the noblest animals on earth, and – "

"I'll look into it," Bruce interrupted. Her story jibed with reports he'd received of a man dressed as Batman in Times Square, but if he really was at the spa, then he must have been connected to Hugo. And judging by what Talia heard him say, Bruce could hazard a guess that it was Tom Blake. That would certainly explain the use of "flehmen" as the code word.

"But don't you see?" she pleaded. "The Cat-bitch has used some kind of black magic! It causes anyone wearing your costume to become completely enamored of cats!"

This latest bit of idiocy made him massage the bridge of his nose, but that wasn't important for the moment, though. "Tell me, Talia," Bruce hissed in his best Bat-gravel, seeing no one else around. "What made you tell the _Riddler_ about Batman's true identity?"

Talia looked shocked, and then indignant, but in between there was a flash of guilt in her eyes. "I never told him such a thing!"

"So you never talked to him?"

There was that poorly-disguised guilt again. "I talked to him, yes, but I didn't – " Talia said. Then she stopped, and her eyes widened in an expression he'd never seen on her face. Apparently she'd gotten an idea. "That little _louse_! He and the Cat are the two most odious creatures in this city!"

"I think she just paid you a compliment, Eddie."

Bruce and Talia both turned to see Selina standing there, looking absolutely stunning – and _Nygma_ next to her. Bruce had a sudden moment of irrational jealousy that Nygma had seen her before he had. But the Riddler didn't even seem to notice him, as he stared warily at Talia.

Talia, however, looked at Nygma with pure rage. "You sneaking, lying filth! Foul vermin!"

"Where'd you learn all your insults, the fourteenth century?" Nygma replied, becoming defensive.

"You used me!" Talia retorted. "It was never about being properly apologetic for the way you behaved towards me. You were merely trying to pump me for information!"

"Yeah, well, nice that you finally figured that out," Riddler said.

"Um," Selina said, "Eddie, why don't Bruce and I go and let you and the spawn – "

"You're not even sorry!" Talia snarled. "You were the one person that day who didn't treat me like garbage, and all along you were treating me like your pawn!"

"Honey, lesser intellects like you shouldn't even be allowed on the chessboard!"

Selina had slipped over to Bruce's side. "If we sneak off now, I don't think they'll notice," she murmured.

By now Bruce had had more than enough of people who knew his secret, and who he really wished didn't. "I'm glad you're back," he whispered, "but I'll save that for when we're alone."

"You scrawny _twerp_!"

"A-DIRE-HA _airhead_!"

"And you weren't even that good!"

Bruce and Selina both froze in place. He must have misheard her, or misinterpreted her . . .

"Oh yeah?" Riddler shot back. He darted forward, grabbed her by the shoulders, and kissed her fiercely.

Bruce was so startled, he didn't even turn to look at Selina, although he felt certain she was just as astonished as he was.

Talia and Nygma broke away from each other for a few moments, and then resumed their passionate kissing.

Revolted, Bruce looked at Selina and saw shock giving way to horror. "Eddie, what the _fuck?_" she asked.

The two lovebirds stopped for a second time, and looked at Bruce and Selina. Bruce again saw the guilt on her face, and realized that was why she had looked guilty earlier. It wasn't that she told, it was that she had slept with another man.

And now that the shock had worn off, Bruce had the happy thought that Talia might be out of his hair once and for all.

"Er, well 'Lina – " Eddie stammered. He glanced at Talia, then grabbed her wrist and ran off, dragging her away with him. "I'll call you later!"

"Eddie? Oh no, you don't go running off without – "

"Let him go," Bruce said. "You can work it out another day."

Selina looked disgusted. "But Bruce, Eddie and the _demonspawn_? He can do better!"

Bruce grudgingly admitted she might be very slightly right. "It wouldn't be his first mistake," he pointed out. "All I know is you've been gone for days, and – "

"HANDS UP, EVERYONE!" Bruce heard from another part of the museum. "PREPARE TO HAVE YOUR VALUABLES PURLOINED BY THE KING OF CATS!"

Oh, for God's sake.

To be continued . . .


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

George thought Jenna's was pretty fucking awesome. Like TGI Friday's, only better.

George had never really gotten used to Gotham until now. He'd been a star offensive tackle for the University of Metropolis for three years before he blew out a knee in the first game of his senior year. That pretty much killed all his plans for that big NFL contract the following year, but it also gave him just enough time to give a shit about his studies.

He scraped through with his diploma and got a job as a derivatives trader at Bear Stearns in Gotham. George had been told that a lot of ex-jocks went into the stock market, and he was surprised to find it was true. There was a real jock mentality among the mostly male, totally white traders - none of that politically correct, liberal dyke crap, like back on campus. Within a week of his arrival, George had felt like he was back in the locker room for the first time in months.

Still, Gotham was a completely different world compared to Metropolis. Gothamites could have been space aliens compared to people in the city back home. Even after one year here, the trading room was _still_ the only place he'd felt at home.

So a good place to get hammered on a Friday night wasn't just a job requirement for a derivatives guy from the Midwest. It was something to help him get through another week. He had to adjust to this town sooner or later. He'd found a few clubs like that in Gotham. Jenna's was the latest.

Jenna's had been recommended by a co-worker at Bear Stearns. He said it was supposed to be filled with criminals and wackos and shit, but they wouldn't pull anything on you. Like "neutral ground". He said there used to be another club like that in town, but now some man-hating nutcase ran it. She sounded a lot like his college girlfriend's roommate, the one who said he was a "brutish, prejudiced Neanderthal".

Saying Jenna's was filled with "criminals and wackos" didn't do it justice, though. It made the bar sound like a mental hospital. _This_ place was more like a freakshow. They were costumed crazies like the ones back in Metropolis, but these didn't seem to be the kind who knocked down buildings with their fists. They seemed kinda colorful and harmless, actually. Like birds. Or Elton John.

And the freakshow was filled with hotties, too. George had scored three phone numbers since his first night there, and the waitresses were more than friendly when you dropped enough of a tip on their trays. There were also plenty hotties dressed like crazies themselves, but he'd been warned that they were "groupies". There were more fun ways of picking up an STD.

With enough places like this, Gotham might actually start feeling like a home one day. George was even debating which of those phone numbers to try out tonight.

He was too busy mentally comparing the blonde with the big tits to the brunette with the nice ass to pay enough attention to his surroundings. So George bumped into a much smaller man on the way to the bathroom, and almost clipped the guy's head with his elbow. "Sorry, little guy," George mumbled absently as he walked on without even sparing him a second glance.

George had just about decided on Candice the brunette about a half-hour later when he realized the guy to his right was dressed like a football player. _Huh, that's a new wacko. Gold helmet, must be a Notre Dame fan. Wonder if he's a fan of the fucking Notre Dame linebacker who screwed up my knee._

He was just about to start an argument with the mystery player when George discovered he was, in fact, not standing next to a man dressed like a football player. He was actually _surrounded_ by football players. There was nobody in the whole place now except for the Fightin' Irish – and him.

What the fuck?

George's mouth fell open as the player closest to him turned around and took off his helmet. He actually almost looked like the same linebacker, except for the rows of long teeth pointed like needles, and the red eyes. "Hey George," he said conversationally. "Thanks for the knee, but we're gonna have to take the rest now."

Gotham was officially, seriously _nothing at all_ like Metropolis.

* * *

Crane chuckled as the big oaf steamrolled five customers and two waitresses as he ran for the front door, flailing his massive arms at nothing visible, screaming, "_Get away, get away, get your fucking claws away from my pants!_"

Several people nearby stared at the Scarecrow, and he smiled back. They stepped away.

"Little guy", indeed.

* * *

Robin looked at the three would-be burglars in front of him, and felt a degree of satisfaction that the crime normally wouldn't deserve. All three men had criminal records, but the attempted jewelry store robbery had been amateurish at best. Nothing was stolen and no innocent people were hurt, but still, Robin could handle situations like this in his sleep.

Except this wasn't a normal situation.

He looked over at Batgirl, who was tying up the last of the three burglars. She'd handled herself professionally and flawlessly. You wouldn't know by looking at her that her one close friend had passed away recently. A close friend who, until recently, had been his girlfriend.

So it was an achievement for them to be out on patrol tonight. The past few minutes had been the easiest part of Robin's night. For a brief time he'd been able to forget about Stephanie's death. He just slipped into the routine. It felt great. It still felt great. He was riding the endorphins right now, but that was okay.

"Guess you guys won't be celebrating at Jenna's tonight," Robin said.

"We weren't going there," one of the men shot back, trying to sound defiant.

"Can't get your names on the list any more?" Robin asked.

The man looked at the other two. "We were goin' to the new Iceberg."

Robin raised an eyebrow. That sounded about as likely as them going to the Metropolitan Opera. "Really," he said disbelievingly.

"We heard the rumor mill," a second robber said. "The Hatter was talking about how he heard Clayface started drinking at the new Iceberg."

"Everybody knows how much Poison Ivy hates him," the third burglar added. "No way she'd let him drink there if she could stop him."

"It must be driving her batshhhh – uh, nuts."

"We wanted to watch. It'll be hilarious."

"You were going to the Rydbergii so you could watch Poison Ivy be humiliated by Clayface," Robin replied.

All three men nodded.

Robin shrugged. That actually sounded reasonable. He'd have to tell Oracle, though, about Clayface being back in town. As far as he knew, she hadn't known. "Well, you won't be going to either club then," he told them before leaving the criminals there for pickup.

Unsurprisingly, Cassie hadn't spoken the entire time. She was never talkative to begin with, and since Stephanie's death she was positively . . .

Damn it. Good feeling gone.

"Met Clayface once."

Robin looked at her, surprised, as she climbed onto the roof. "You 'met' him? You mean you _fought_ him? When?"

"Rather not say."

He could imagine why. By herself and without the right tools, she would have been nearly defenseless against him. "What happened?"

"Almost died." She paused. "Ivy saved me."

Robin stared. "Poison Ivy saved you from Clayface."

"Know had nothing to do with me. Not know it me. All about hurting him. Saved me anyway," she said.

"And now Clayface is getting her back, and you feel what, bad for her?" Robin asked.

Cassie shrugged. "Worried a little."

"I'm sure she can take care of herself, Batgirl."

"Stephanie not take care of self."

Robin felt his gut clench, jump through a hoop, and do a cartwheel. "Stephanie was _nothing_ like Poison Ivy," he said angrily.

"No," Cassie agreed sadly. "She dead, though. Couldn't save her. Ivy not dead. Maybe save her. Be even."

"But – " Robin stopped. It was just the kind of thing Cassie would feel. Only now, coming so soon after Stephanie's murder in that lonely alley, Cassie felt it twice as strongly. The evening of the scales would also appeal to her. And technically, if Ivy _was_ being victimized, she had _some_ right to be saved – even from something she'd started long ago.

"We can't just walk into the Rydbergii and announce we've come to save her from Clayface," he pointed out.

"Know that. Not know what to do. Want to do something," Cassie replied, her voice soft.

He scratched his head. "Well, we can report it to Oracle and Batman, have them look into it. If something's up, Batman will know how to handle Hagen." Batman, he suspected, would also find out what, if anything, Clayface had on Ivy, and he'd know what to do with _that_ too. Ivy certainly wasn't going to be saved from her own crimes.

"Okay," Cassie said after a moment.

"And hey, if worst comes to worst," he added, trying to lighten the mood, "you can disguise yourself as a groupie and check things out in there. They could use the business."

For some reason, Cassie made a choking sound in response.

* * *

Charlie didn't smoke, but he didn't mind if people smoked around him, and he sure as hell didn't mind if the stupid saps smoked them all their lives until their lungs rotted and the cancer got so bad it was building condos.

After all, if the morons got a fucking clue and read the warning labels, which practically said "YOU WILL DIE IF YOU STICK THIS SHIT BETWEEN YOUR LIPS!", then he'd be out of a job. And as a litigator who'd started to build a niche in defending tobacco companies, it was a very well-paying job.

Charlie loved Gotham, he loved his firm, he loved making partner next year, and he sure as hell loved it when women mistook him for Tom Cruise. (Until that couch-jumping crap, who the hell would become a Scientologist now after watching that insanity on TV?) He wouldn't say he _loved_ Jenna's, but he liked it just fine, and "just fine" was enough to drop a couple hundred dollars in a single night on premium liquor for himself and whatever girl he'd picked up.

He also liked watching the Arkham escapees trying to act like (relatively) normal people. What a joke. They weren't crazy. They were social rejects who killed people for the notoriety. A guy like the Riddler? Without his shtick he'd be a data processor somewhere. And the Batman just fed their fucking egos! If the Bat was in a prison where he belonged, those costumed nutjobs would just wither away.

He should know, he used to be a public defender.

Charlie hadn't been interested in upholding the justice system for peanuts his whole life. He just wanted to do it long enough for the experience on his resume. Once you defended enough murderers and rapists, you developed a cast-iron stomach for defending the killers who paid _real_ good money.

And as long as the smokers who deserved what they got went on suing the cigarette manufacturers, his firm would rake in the profits. When Charlie made partner next year, he'd rake a portion of those profits too.

He smiled at the waitress as she brought him another whiskey sour. "Thanks, babe," he said, casually dropping a twenty in her apron pocket. "Any stars in tonight?"

She gestured behind him and to his left with one finger. "The Hatter's in the corner like always," she said. "And Killer Croc's over there." She didn't bother pointing him out. You'd have to be blind not to see the jolly green giant towering over everyone else. "It's a slow night."

"I'm not sure who's harder to understand," Charlie said. "At least the Hatter knows some words with more than two syllables."

"Be nice," she chided him. "Jervis is harmless."

Which was exactly the point he'd always tried to make. These people were harmless. Sure, Croc could probably bench-press eight hundred pounds, but in here he could've been just another bouncer. And the Hatter, well, Charlie's waitress could probably take _him_.

Oh sure, some guy ran out of here screaming a few nights ago, he heard. Scarecrow spiked his drink for no reason. Scarecrow was also ninety pounds soaking wet. If the Batman needed more than thirty seconds to take him down, he was an idiot. Don't drink what he serves you. End of discussion.

Charlie got up and went to approach the "Killer". Not to actually engage him in conversation, of course. What could you talk about with him anyway? His taste in raw meat? Just to look at him. At least he was a sight to see.

What Charlie _didn't_ see was someone else's foot, and so he tripped over it. He caught himself on a table, but his whiskey sloshed all over the floor.

Including, as it happened, Killer Croc's feet.

Charlie looked up at the big reptile. "Hey, my apologies, Croc. Let me buy you a drink," he said glibly, flashing that classic Cruise-like smile.

* * *

Killer Croc glared at the manager. "He had it coming," he growled.

"The man spilled his drink on you!" the manager said, agitated. "He apologized! We're lucky you didn't give him a concussion or break his collarbone!"

"Well, he didn't say sorry well enough!" Croc retorted. "He said it like I was some guy on the street! When you say sorry to Killer Croc, you get on your _knees!_"

"And so you threw him behind the bar?!"

Croc shrugged. "It felt good. Like old times."

They asked him to leave. He didn't, of course. How the hell could they make him? But he resented them asking anyway. They didn't seem to get him here any more than the little man did.

He left because he wanted to.

* * *

Raven didn't particularly enjoy this mission for a few reasons. There was, of course, the fact that when Ivy inevitably retreated to her office for the night, she would be a gloomy, short-tempered, near-hysterical mess until the last customer was gone. But there was also the fact that Raven was doing something which could conceivably be seen as betraying a fellow employee.

It didn't matter. It was going to be a problem sooner or later, and she didn't want Ivy to find out after it was too late, like she had with Jenna's.

She took a deep breath and knocked on the door. "Ms. Isley?"

The door opened after a few seconds, and Ivy's face could be seen only by the light coming from the club. The office was shrouded in darkness, and Raven found herself thinking back to high school drama class. She didn't think it would be a good idea, however, if she shared her thought with anyone else that Ivy reminded her of Blanche from _A Streetcar Named Desire_. "What is it?" she asked curtly.

"We've got a problem," Raven said. "Or we're going to, anyway."

Ivy sighed. "What now?"

"I . . . I don't think Becky is going to cut it."

"The bartender? Why?"

"Well, you know how business is up slightly?"

Ivy smiled bitterly. "Yes. Apparently now that Hagen is drinking here, a few people have decided it's safe to come in the water. My _hero_."

Raven didn't want to get anywhere close to between Ivy and Clayface. She just treated him like she treated any A-lister back when it was still the Iceberg. "Ever since more customers started coming in, Becky's falling behind on drink orders. You might need to add another bartender."

"Why Raven, are you making management decisions now?"

Fortunately Raven had built up a resistance to Ivy's passive-aggressive high school bullshit.

Ivy's hand came into view as she sipped from a wineglass and the snide look was replaced by one of mild apathy. "Fine, I'll put an ad in the paper. There are over five million women in the city. There have to be more bartenders."

"Becky was the best we could get," Raven said unhappily. Of course Ivy would eliminate half the available pool of applicants. "And . . . "

Ivy's smile twisted. "And with Jenna's taking away all our business, no competent bartender will work for a place that's just going to close in a couple months?"

Raven didn't say anything. Just because Ivy offered that herself, it didn't make it any safer to agree with her.

"Well," Ivy said. She tapped a finger on the glass. Fortunately this didn't seem to be one of those nights where she let alcohol affect her. "Business is up?"

"A little," Raven agreed. "Mostly henchmen." She chose her next words carefully. "I think they're disappointed you're not down there."

Ivy perked up. "Really?"

Raven nodded. She could have left it at that, and allowed Ivy to sweep downstairs in a blaze of feminine glory, but it would be better for her in the long run if she dashed Ivy's hopes. "They heard Hagen was here."

"Well, yes, of course, but you said they were here for _me_."

"I think they might be here for you . . . so Clayface can lord it over you that he drinks here and you can't afford to throw him out," Raven said gingerly.

Ivy's back stiffened. "I see," she hissed through clenched teeth. "Oppressive, patriarchal, chauvinistic _men_. All they want in this progressive day and age is to see a strong woman held down!"

Raven doubted it had anything to do with Ivy's gender, but she held her tongue. She started, though, when Ivy shoved the wineglass into her hand.

"Fine then," Ivy said coldly. "The little schoolboy shits can laugh behind their hands. I'll even serve Hagen a _drink_ if it brings more in. But I want their names, Raven. I want their names, and eventually, when we're busy again . . . well, we won't need their business any more."

Raven shivered.

"And if I'm going to tend bar for Hagen like a common _wage slave_, he can drink Cosmopolitans all night!" Ivy added. She walked ahead of Raven.

But not before the hostess heard Ivy mutter, "Besides, it's the only drink I can make."

Raven permitted herself a smile. The goddess wasn't a mixologist? Blasphemy!

* * *

Even after six days here, Rita still looked at the city around her with a touch of awe. Gotham, she thought, was a pretty swell place.

Rita had never gone more than fifty miles from her hometown in Arizona. She'd grown up there, gone to school there, went to the satellite campus of the University of Arizona _near_ there, and then gone right back to teach junior high there. And it had always felt just right there.

Just because you were a small-town girl from birth, though, didn't mean you didn't want to see something bigger than yourself one day. And when Rita won a little more than three thousand dollars in the state lottery, she spent most of it on a week's vacation for herself in the biggest city in America. The little country mouse wanted to see "the city" one time before she settled back down. There was that handsome young assistant football coach she had her eye on . . .

Since arriving in Gotham, she'd purchased a half-price ticket to a Broadway show, walked through Times Square, waited in line for hours to see Letterman, ridden the subway, eaten a soft pretzel, and even had a picture taken of herself next to one of those big lions outside the library. Rita would be going home tomorrow with enough memories to last her a half-dozen vacations. (And let's face it, the next time she left Arizona, she'd probably be taking the kids to Disneyland.)

Tonight, however, she wanted one last glimpse of the Gotham nightlife. "Try Jenna's," her cabbie had suggested. "Da only place to see some of our _local color_."

He hadn't really said what "local color" meant. Rita had supposed he meant "homosexuals", something they didn't really have back home (that she knew of). They certainly were flamboyant folks! She discovered upon her arrival, however, that he'd been referring to "criminals who wore masks and silly outfits".

And those were something they _really_ didn't have back home.

Rita had felt a bit out of place in Jenna's. She was surrounded by people her age who dressed better, talked faster, and evidently had more money than she did. The drinks all seemed outrageously expensive, even compared to what she'd already spent in Gotham, and she'd never even heard of most of the brands of beer and liquor they served.

The entertainment, however, was surreal. Rita could almost imagine this was what the giant costumed mascots were like at theme parks. Of course, those mascots probably weren't a little bit creepy too.

What she'd have to tell her friends back home, though.

Eventually Rita gravitated toward a silly little man along the wall, because he was the one thing that had actually made her laugh that night. In his arms he had a ventriloquist's dummy, like the ones you saw on television, and the dummy was dressed more nicely than he was! He had on a fancy white suit and an old silk hat, and he talked like he was Al Capone. And when he gave orders to much bigger men in suits, they did whatever he said. Although he had the oddest habit of pronouncing the letter "b" like it was a "g".

"You guys, move!" the dummy barked, pointing a little arm at two men blocking her way. "Let the goil closer. You mooks can't ge glocking my admirers of the female persuasion."

The two men parted like gatekeepers outside a castle drawbridge, and Rita drew forward with a bit of trepidation. If what she'd heard was any indication, this man was connected in some way to a criminal enterprise. But how could this funny little man be taken _seriously_?

"Name's Scarface," the dummy told her. "Pleased ta meetcha, miss?"

"Rita," she said. Scarface! She'd never seen the movie, but now she understood. The ventriloquist must use his dummy to portray film roles! "It's Rita."

"Rita," Scarface repeated. "I couldn't help but notice you geen lookin' my way."

"I'm sorry," Rita confessed, "but I couldn't help myself."

Scarface was almost preening. "See that, dummy?" he said. "All da dames love me."

"O-of course, Mister Scarface!" the ventriloquist said.

Rita clapped her hands together. "Oh, the two of you are so adorable!"

Scarface blinked at her. His jaw dropped slightly. He looked up at the ventriloquist. "Did she just say I was _adoragle?_"

"Umm . . . maybe?"

"Huh," the dummy said. Then he grinned at her. "Say, Rita, why don't you lean in close, and I'll let you in on a little secret? Cuz I geen looking your way too."

The act was incredible. The dummy really seemed more lifelike than the man with his hand up its jacket. "Sure thing - Mr. Scarface," she said. She leaned in really close and put her ear close to his head.

Before Rita quite knew what was happening, she felt something like tiny knobs rubbing against her bosom.

"I like your tits," the dummy said into her ear.

* * *

"Mr. Scarface!" Wesker burst out, finally locating his employer. "Are you all right?!"

"Do I look all right?" Scarface demanded as Wesker picked him up off the floor. "I coulda geen stepped on! Where's the manager? I wanna see the manager! I want that gitch tossed out on her ear!"

"There he is! There's the little pervert who put his paws on me!"

Wesker and Scarface turned around. Rita was storming towards them with a manager in tow. "You uppity little gitch!" Scarface snarled. "Nogody puts his hands on me like that, nogody!" He went for his gun before he realized Wesker had it. "Dummy, gun."

The manager's eyes widened, having evidently heard Scarface. Since the people around them had gone completely quiet, it wouldn't have been hard. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, turning to Rita, "but you have to leave."

"What?!" she shrieked. "He fondled me - _with his dummy!_"

"You put your hands on her?!" Scarface yelled at Wesker.

"N-no, I n-never - "

"She was mine!" And then he clubbed Wesker in the face.

Rita looked like she wanted to hit Wesker too. Instead, she swiveled on the manager. "Why should I have to leave?"

"Well, er, you see - you shouldn't have thrown him across the room like that. You could have hurt someone."

"I was trying to! I was trying to hurt that little asshole!"

"Dames and their vocagulary these days," Scarface said, shaking his head. "Dey don't make 'em like dey used to."

* * *

Clayface heard the room go silent behind him. He wouldn't have noticed a few weeks ago, when the joint was as quiet as the grave. Now that business could be considered "barely decent", you might actually find yourself within fifteen feet of a conversation.

"Bats," he muttered. "You need something?"

"Outside, Clayface," Batman growled at him from behind. "Now. I want information. Like where Poison Ivy is."

"What do I look like, her secretary?"

Batman leaned in really close. "Why not? We both know you're working for her."

Clayface wasn't nervous. He was just curious. What did Batman think he knew? So he slid off his barstool, and his ponderous bulk stood just a bit higher. "You want the front or the back entrance?"

"Back. If this comes to a fight, I don't want you risking the lives of innocents." Batman paused. "Like you've been doing for the past two weeks," he added meaningfully.

Okay, so Batman knew a lot. Or he'd guessed a lot. It didn't really matter. He could have been more careful about it. "Fine then," Clayface said amiably.

As Batman followed him through the rear of the Rydbergii, Clayface shrugged. "I don't know where Pammy is. She went tearing out of here about fifteen minutes ago. Anyone else here could tell you that."

"Then you can give her a message when she _does_ get back."

"What's that?" Clayface asked as he barged through the back doors into the alley where the dumpsters were kept.

"If either of you goes even goes _near_ Jenna's again, I'll come after you both."

"Why would I go to Jenna's? The word's out, Batman. I'm a regular here now."

Batman smiled grimly. "I heard. I heard the rumor that you were using some kind of extortion to force Ivy to serve you. From someone who was worried about her, if you can believe it."

"Really? How is Quinn these days?"

"I've also heard a lot at Jenna's," Batman went on. "I've seen a lot. I've had it under surveillance since it opened."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that," Clayface said piously. "Do you realize what a powder keg that place is? It's like a zoo without cages! Sooner or later, somebody's getting eaten."

"Somebody like Charlie Parcher?"

"Who?"

"Over the past two weeks, there have been three incidents at Jenna's where ordinary citizens were attacked by Rogues – the Scarecrow, Killer Croc, and Scarface. All three were provoked by the most minor kind of mistakes and overreacted violently. Any one of them could have started a riot that night. More people could have been injured, or even killed."

"And this Charlie Parcher was one of the victims."

"You already know that. All three victims were able to leave Jenna's without assistance, but all three gave their names to the manager before leaving - Charlie Parcher, George Kaplan, and Rita Miller. But there's no record of anyone by those names seeking medical treatment or filing a police report in the wake of the attacks. Parcher and Kaplan had recently become regulars there, but there's no Charles or Charlie Parcher living anywhere near Gotham, and while there _is_ a George Kaplan, he doesn't match the description of the victim. And Miller was a tourist, but no one by her name flew in or out of Gotham in the past week, or booked a hotel room."

"I think I've seen this movie, Bats," Clayface interjected. "Don't you think we should go somewhere more appropriate? Like a drawing room?"

"I don't think any of these people were really _victims_," Batman went on mercilessly. "I think they intentionally provoked these criminals in the hopes of being attacked in order to drive business away from Jenna's. Any rational person who witnessed those attacks would realize that even the most minor offense at the wrong time could lead to them being attacked. _And_ that the club owners couldn't do anything to protect them. So now customers are using their better judgment, and business is down. The only person who could stand to gain from this is Poison Ivy."

"Then why are you bothering me? So she hired a bunch of actors to make trouble. Actors are a dime a dozen in this town. Believe me, I know. I used to be one, remember?"

"Oh, I do, Hagen," Batman replied. "You've never stopped being an actor. Like at Jenna's the past two weeks. It's all about the _names_. They were all named after _film characters_. Rita Miller was a fake bank account holder in Ghost. George Kaplan was a fictitious spy in North By Northwest. And Charles and Parcher were the names of two imaginary people in A Beautiful Mind. You didn't just pick movie characters, Hagen. You picked the names of characters that _don't actually exist_. Just like those three victims."

Clayface chuckled. He wouldn't have guessed Batman watched movies. Anybody today could use Google, though. "Why would I help Pammy? I don't even like her."

"You're helping Ivy so she'll let you into her club," Batman said. "You're not controlling her. _She's_ controlling _you_."

"Nobody controls me!" Clayface shot back. Then he got his temper back under control. "And anyway, you have no way of proving it. Besides, what's the crime? Being attacked by career criminals in the first degree? Actually, as I see it, whoever Ivy hired, they were doing the city a public service. They found a way to wake those people up, make them realize the danger they were putting themselves in, and all without a single trip to the hospital or the morgue. I think those actors have a real career in public service announcements, Batsy."

Batman's scowl became even more pronounced. "But if anyone _does_ get hurt at Jenna's? Even if I can't prove it was you? I'll find a way to put Ivy away, and I'll make the charges stick. And then, Hagen? When she doesn't have any further use for you? Then it'll be back to Star City for you."

Clayface glared back at him. "Are we finished? I have a beverage I'd like to pretend to drink before all the ice melts."

"You pass that message along to your boss when you see her, Hagen."

"Yeah, yeah," Clayface muttered, turning away. Nobody had better find out about the truth, though. If people thought he was taking _orders_ from her, then Star City wouldn't be far enough from Gotham."

To be continued . . .


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

Ivy woke up that day with the sun in her face. Just like any of her beloved flowers, she rose, stretched, and bloomed in its warm, life-giving rays. Night was conquered once more by her lush, rich beauty. Now _this_ was how every morning should start!

And it would too. It wasn't as if she'd be waking up under the vampiric florescent lights of Arkham Asylum any time soon. And if Hagen's reports were to be believed, the Rydbergii wouldn't be shutting its doors in the near future either.

Ivy wasn't inclined to give Hagen the benefit of the doubt, but the proof was in the traffic on the lounge floor these past couple weeks. Business was up twenty-eight percent, although considering how poor they'd done before, that wasn't as enormous an uptick as it sounded. Still, henchmen tended to drink a lot, and they weren't important enough to run up much of a tab.

They also tended to drink at the same bars as their employers. That hadn't happened here, which meant either that the situation at Jenna's had become THAT intolerable, or that they expected the upper-echelon Rogues to arrive any day now. It was a win-win for her.

Well, a win-win with a dash of lose. Since that first night where, for the enjoyment of the hoodlums gathered, she'd deigned to mix drinks for Hagen, she'd tended bar almost every night. Clearly the customers got a rise out of watching her serve. Watching her give some greedy, vile, repellent man whatever he asked for, like she was an ordinary serving girl.

If anyone got the idea that this allowed them to _pinch_ her somewhere, their suffering would be endless.

But if making a spectacle of herself for neanderthals boosted receipts, she was willing to degrade herself by serving any pig who bellied up to the bar – in the short run, at least. Once the Rydbergii could sustain itself without the patronage of these men, however . . . well, Penguin's upstairs apartments could use major renovations, and greened men could still perform manual labor.

Until then, Ivy had been forced to watch videos and read books on mixology. She simply would not ask one of her own _employees_ to teach her. So far she'd learned enough to know that some of the names would have to change. There was no way any of her customers would be asking her for a Flaming Orgasm, Tight Snatch, or Sex on the Beach.

It was also yet another demand on her time. You had to keep both of your eyes on the black market operations, Ivy had found, or they'd try to cheat you eight different ways. Between that, teaching herself bartending, business hours, visiting Harley occasionally, and keeping the pile of unpaid invoices somewhat manageable, Ivy had little time to do anything else besides eat and sleep.

Not today, though. With things improving as they were, Ivy felt like she could finally take a day for herself to relax. She hadn't been able to pamper herself like she used to. Gaia, she barely had time to look into a _mirror_. She'd been forced to rely on her (admittedly tremendous) gifts of natural beauty and grace to get her through each day looking her absolute best.

Today, however, Ivy was going to take advantage of a full array of her all-natural, herbal creams, lotions, and conditioners. She was going to take a good, long soak. She was going to have her hair done. And she was going to update her wardrobe for the good days ahead.

And who knew? If things could start looking up here at the Rydbergii, then maybe Harley could, wonder of wonders, start looking up as well.

Running her fingers through her hair, Ivy stood up, letting the sheets slide off and reveal her in all of her nude, natural, voluptuous glory. It was time for the goddess to start what would be a divine day.

_____________________________________

On one level, Eddie had been looking forward to this. It had been over two weeks since he'd seen Selina last, and that had been under less than optimal conditions.

Which was the reason why he had also been dreading this. Of all the women in the world for him to start dating . . . it's not that he thought friends had to approve and sign off on each other's romantic interests. It was just that, to put it in the riddling form that made him most comfortable:

_Riddle me this, Lina my dear._

_Of all the women that I could hold near,_

_Which is most likely to make you sneer?_

_Answer: "The Demonspawn"_

If he had gone out deliberately SEEKING the partner most likely to give offense, he could not have done better than Talia — and there was the rub. Because if Selina was to go out deliberately seeking a partner most likely to give offense, it was Batman. And Eddie couldn't help but think that Selina would think he HAD done it on purpose. Tit for quo. Quid pro tat. I boffed the spawn since you're boinking the Bat.

And then she'd found out in the worst way possible. He felt as guilty today as he had that night.

But they had to get this out of the way if they ever wanted to have a normal conversation again. It was one big clusterfuck, however you looked at it, and they simply had to get past it. Eddie felt the need to apologize for the demonspawn. He didn't think Selina would apologize in return for sleeping with the Bat, but an explanation would be nice. Still, realistically, he wasn't likely to get that much. "A cat thing". She didn't explain. She didn't apologize. She licked a paw or sharpened her claws as she saw fit, take it or leave it.

The tricky part had been the meeting place. Eddie obviously couldn't invite Selina back to the hideout he was sharing with Talia. He certainly wouldn't be welcome at the manor. And talking in public probably wasn't a good idea, considering what they had to discuss was pretty sensitive material.

Selina had eventually suggested meeting her at one of her lairs, the Cats Cosmetics warehouse. Eddie knew it could only be a lair for appearance's sake, since it wasn't possible that Catwoman could be stealing and sharing a home with Batman at the same time, but he was still nervous. It was her territory, and while she'd sounded relatively normal over the phone, he still felt like the proverbial fly entering the parlor... or at very least, the mouse venturing out of its hole and strolling right between the catnip ball and the scratching post.

When he got there, however, he found only Selina in full costume, sitting on one end of a large, wide sofa. Seeing nowhere else to sit, he went to the other end and waited for her to say something.

"What do you think?" she suddenly asked, gesturing about their surroundings.

"It's, um, nice," Eddie said, surprised. "Seems a little spartan, though."

"Well, until recently I was renting it out to Victor. The sofa's just the first step. Although this wasn't quite the first use for it I had in mind," Selina said.

Eddie nodded. "It's good to see you, 'Lina."

"You too, Eddie. But we could have talked about this a lot sooner, you know. I wasn't going to scratch you to ribbons just because you've been – " Selina shuddered theatrically. "Making a mistake. A tremendous, monumental, life-altering mistake."

"It's not that bad," he said uncomfortably.

"Yeah, it really is. You just don't know it yet. Where is she?"

"What?"

"Where is she, Eddie? Still in her hotel room?"

He tugged at his collar. This was why he'd waited so long. It wasn't being "scratched to ribbons". It was what she'd say. What she'd ask. And what he'd have to answer. Doing it was one thing. Saying it was another. Eddie had a feeling, once he heard it put into actual words, he was going to be struck by the monumental stupidity of his situation. _Yeah, it really is. You just don't know it yet._

"Er, well, no. She's at Kittlemeier's for, um, a fitting."

Selina stared at him like he'd proposed opening a private detective agency together.

_Yeah, it really is. You just don't know it yet._

"A _sidekick_? Eddie, are you fucking nuts? Don't you know her track record? Haven't you seen Fatal Attraction?"

"It wasn't like this was planned! I didn't plan on having drunken sex with her, and I certainly wasn't pining for her after she left or expecting any kind of sequel," Eddie said defensively.

"No, I wouldn't think so. But _your_ expectations aren't the worry when we're talking about Talia al-Ghul."

..._You just don't know it yet._

"She's an emotional vampire, Eddie. A black hole of needy psychoses, in constant need of validation. You fill that role once, you're rolling the dice. You do it twice..."

"REALISE NUT TOURS?"

Selina stared.

"Russian roulette," he explained – and she nodded.

"Come on, Eddie, this whole situation is absurd. You're not the type to wake up one morning and say 'Things are going too well, I should get into bed with a delusional nutjob. That'll spice things up'."

"Look, I'm sorry, all right?" he burst out. "I said, it wasn't planned. It _couldn't_ have been planned. No one could have planned that night. Besides, do you really think I would _intend_ to sleep with someone who you disapprove of so much?"

_"..."_

There it was. Eddie would have done anything to take the words back, but now, there it was. Did she think he would do it on purpose? To get back at her for Batman? Quid pro tat. Spawn for Bat.

"Lina, you can't think that. Or that I wanted you to find out like _that_?" Eddie smoothed his hair with one hand. "I just figured, as long as I'm in this deep, as long as I'm sharing a bed with her, as long as she's going to be hanging around the lair, then at least she can wear spandex."

Selina looked at him thoughtfully. "Unlike Doris, you mean."

He winced. That _had_ been the implication, but he would rather she hadn't said so out loud. "Unlike Doris," he agreed. "It's one big mess, Selina. I have to take VIRGIN ILLNESS - silver linings where I can get them."

"Eddie, you say that like you're stuck with a situation when it's entirely of you're own making. If you don't want her around, you don't have to make the best of it. Break it off! Or at least, you could try." Selina suggested. "Granted, it can take multiple attempts. I mean, you are aware that she's never been on a first name basis with realities that don't suit her."

Eddie chuckled. "She's become a Riddler henchwench, Selina. How can you see this as a reality that would suit her?"

"It would suit her," Selina replied calmly, "if she's using you to get to Batman."

"Ah," he said. "Yes, that. My new girlfriend would rather be with the Batman. It's a familiar refrain, eh, Selina?"

"There are about six different ways that's a catastrophically stupid thing to say, Edward. Do you want to clarify which one you're going for, so we're both clear on what ditch you're trying to dig yourself out of?"

He waved a hand. "Fine. We'll save that for later. As for – "

"No, we will not _save it for later, _Eddie," Selina said flatly. "My relationship with Bruce is not relevant to this conversation — at least it better not be. Because if I thought it was connected to whatever's going on with you and Talia, that's bad in too many ways to list."

_Yeah, it really is... _

"Selina, are you kidding me? _You're sleeping with Batman_. And you kept it a secret from me!"

_...You just don't know it yet._

"No..." she began firmly. "I've never hidden my relationship _with Bruce_. That's never been a secret. _Bruce's_ secret, on the other hand—Eddie, think about that for ten seconds and realize how idiotic you sound. If I was sleeping with Vladimir Putin, do you think I'd give you Russian missile codes?"

"Well – " Eddie tried to respond.

"_You,_ however, had a one-nighter with the demonspawn, and I'm guessing you had no intention of telling me. Am I right?"

Eddie looked down. "Yeah, but – "

"So if anyone was keeping their relationship a secret from the other to a degree that isn't quite kosher between close friends, it was you. So I don't think you have the right to get self-righteous with me," Selina said. "If you want to be angry about Bruce and I, that's your prerogative. But I won't apologize for being happy, I won't say I regret it, and if you can't _deal_ with it, then I guess we don't have anything more to say."

"I'm not asking you to break up with him or anything," Eddie said anxiously. It was hard to stay angry when she was the one giving the ultimatum. "But, I mean... if you're with him, then this means you're not a thief any more. You're not one of _us_ any more."

"I know," she said softly. "And it tears away at me sometimes. Those are the times I could use _a friend_. Those are the times I'd like to say 'that night at the MOMA, I'd just come home from an assignment. First job I've had in months, and even if I had to wear a not very flattering jumpsuit, I had a blast'. I'd like to do that and have you listen and... and tell me that it counts. Because even if I'm not stealing for fun and profit anymore, even if I put my relationship with Bruce before all that, I'm still me. That's what I'd like a friend to say, Eddie. That 'us' is you and me and Harvey, so of course, I'm still one of us. I'm just not a part of _them_. I never was."

"No, that's true," Eddie acknowledged. Just because she associated with the Scarecrow didn't mean she had anything in common with him. "But what about the other _them_? The Bats and the capes and – "

"Eddie, if you ever suggest I'm a crimefighter, or that I'm anything like those super-schmucks, then I _will_ have to start scratching," she warned him.

"Right, gotcha, not one of the SUCKERS-CHUMPS," Eddie said quickly. If he was being honest with himself, the idea of Selina sleeping with Batman was less troubling than the idea that Selina might start fighting people like him. It didn't make it a lot easier. But . . . "I guess I'll have to deal with it then," he said.

"Good." Selina looked pleased briefly, but then she turned serious again. "So let's get back to the spawn then."

Eddie groaned.

"I had asked you," she continued, "if you'd considered that she was using you to get to Batman."

"And I was going to say that I had," Eddie said. "But I don't think that's what's going on. I just think she's out of options. Look, she wrecked LionCorp, so what little life she'd built for herself in Metropolis is gone – and yes, before you say it, I know she didn't build it herself. Lionel handed it to her, but that's not the point. She failed. She screwed it up on a scale nobody would have thought possible before it happened. She proved to herself that she hasn't got the stuff to make it on her own. So what can she do? Go back to her father, who scares the snot out of her? Or find somebody else to keep the rain off her head. I think she realizes that Batman would just bring her into contact with Daddums again, and in whatever ways you ladies may find the old Nigmeister inferior to the perfect ideal of manhood that is Bruce-gag me with a spork-Wayne, I've got one thing he can't touch. Never met Ra's, don't plan to. So for her purposes, I'm a darn good 'protector'. And I'm willing to work with that for now. She's an improvement, believe it or not, over the groupies."

Selina sighed. "Okay, maybe that's all true. Now. Maybe right now, she doesn't look so bad compared to your past girlfriends. But what about when it's over? 'Over' isn't a concept she understands, Eddie. She imprints on a man."

Eddie shrugged. "I can always just give Greg a call. I'll have his boys ship her back home. If her father gets hold of her, she makes it sound like he's going to ground her for the rest of her life. My very own Talia kryptonite."

Selina looked a bit startled.

"What?"

"Nothing. It's just you're not the first person I've heard use 'Talia' and 'kryptonite' in the same sentence."

Eddie decided he didn't want to know who the first person was. "Or worse, he'll try to marry her off again," he went on. "According to her, years ago he tried to arrange a royal European wedding for her. And she would have gone through with it, even after she found out the boy was gay as a three-dollar bill. Lucky for her he died in the war."

"Which one?" Selina asked.

"What do you mean, which one?" Eddie said blankly.

It was the second reference in as many minutes that hinted at Selina knowing more about his girlfriend than he did... which was a little discomfiting.

"Never mind. Okay, so you're saying she'll do anything to stay over here."

He nodded. "We'll see if she can follow my orders as well as she followed her old man's. Starting with whether she can be as punctual as Kittlemeier requires. Then we'll see how she looks in green."

"And the – " Selina grinned impishly and used a fingertip to trace a question mark across her chest.

"I haven't decided between making it purple or yellow, but yeah, even that."

"_Yellow,_" Selina said instantly. "Edward Richmond Nigma, so help me –

"I think I'll defer to your judgment," he interrupted, going back to feeling nervous in an instant.

"If you put a millimeter of purple anywhere on that woman's body I'll scratch - "

"All right!" he told Selina. He glanced at his watch. "She should be there now. I'll call her now." Eddie pulled out his cell phone and made a quick call. "Talia? Tell Kittlemeier I want yellow, not purple . . . well, it wasn't up to you anyway, but it's nice you approve." Then he hung up.

"Ugh," Selina said. "You have the spawn on _speed-dial_."

"It's not like I have a wide circle of friends," he said apologetically. "And you'll be thrilled to know that Talia is in total agreement on the choice of colors."

Selina made a face like she'd eaten something spoiled. "Well, if you do get her in green with a big yellow question mark, I'll pay to see it."

"Does that mean you'll play nice the next time you see her?" Eddie asked. "Relatively speaking, anyway."

"I always play nice," Selina purred. "It unnerves them. - Now, you do realize she's going to be a pretty useless sidekick?"

"Someone who has zero chance of hurting your boyfriend, you mean? Probably for the best."

"Well, aren't you sweet."

Eddie paused. "Did you want me to explain how she and I first hooked up?"

"No, Eddie. It's safe to say that I do _not_ want mental images of you and the spawn in bed together."

"I'm not that gruesome a sight, you know."

"_Eddie_."

"Right, sorry."

______________________________

Ivy took several deep breaths. It was going to be all right. She had clarity now. Clarity was a good thing. She could see clearly that – that she really didn't want to see herself in the mirror right now.

So she smashed the one over her sink, and the destruction was complete.

"Ivy? Is there perhaps something this devious devotee could help you with?"

Ivy spun around in horror. Penguin, who had undoubtedly heard the commotion, was standing in the doorway and _looking_ at her. While she was _naked_.

She wasn't sure what upset her more – that he was seeing her without any clothes on, or that he was seeing her at all. "_GET OUT!"_ she shrieked, shoving him backwards and slamming the door behind him.

Now she was all by herself.

Ivy suddenly burst into helpless tears. That was it. She had nothing left. This _grand experiment_ was over. After tonight she was packing up, moving out, and slinking back to Robinson Park to reclaim her old life.

The pampering session had spiraled downhill almost immediately. Whether it was because of negligence, denial, or most likely a combination of the two, Ivy had let herself go to a degree that was completely unacceptable. Oh sure, it was hard to look your best after a few weeks in a cell at Arkham. But at least there she'd made some effort to maintain herself. Here, she'd made none. She hadn't had the time. She just spent every day sitting at a _desk_.

That new sedentary, indoors lifestyle was almost certainly to blame for what she'd found when she looked at herself, _really_ looked at herself, in the mirror. The circles under her eyes had darkened, probably due to poorer circulation. Her curls had lost some of their body and bounce, making her hair look limp by comparison to what it was six months ago. Her face looked wan, except for a few oily spots around the nose, and she had a miserable suspicion that she was getting something that resembled a _pimple_ above her upper lip.

Most importantly, she was forced to admit that she'd put on weight. Not just a pound or two – it was closer to ten or even fifteen. And most of it had gone right to her midsection. Those extra calories were there for all to see in her thighs, her belly, and her ass. Of course her breasts had gotten a little bigger too, but _not_ in a good way. Her clothes _had_ been fitting a little more snugly than they had in the past, but she hadn't really thought much of it. (Or more likely, ignored what was right in front of her.) It seemed counter-intuitive, since she was barely eating these days, but Ivy guessed that her metabolism had responded by slowing to a crawl. That might explain why she'd felt even more tired than usual lately.

She was certainly tired now, but that might have more to do with the fact that she'd just torn apart the bathroom in a fit of pure rage.

She hadn't been eating, she hadn't been exercising, and even with the recent upswing, she'd been worrying constantly about the Rydbergii. And Harley, of course. She looked awful, and she felt worse.

What the hell had _happened_ to her? Ivy's beauty wasn't a privilege, it was her goddamned _right!_

Another unpleasant thought struck her. (What was one more?) Just because Ivy had been ignoring the changes in her looks, that didn't mean everyone else had. Was _that_ why everyone wanted to see her serving drinks at the Lounge? So they could laugh at the all-new, bigger, fatter Poison Ivy?

"No more," Ivy said to herself. She was a proud woman. Sometimes her pride kept her going when nothing else would. But her pride had been battered beyond recovery by now. Everything had changed the night Joker died. That would always be a good memory, but every decision she'd made afterwards had been a mistake. She would have cut her losses and gotten out long ago if she'd been able to admit that sooner.

Well, if there was a silver lining here, that was it. The face in the mirror had woken Ivy up. Tonight would be the last night the Rydbergii Lounge would be open for business. After tonight it would be open season on every man who ever came to the Lounge to gloat. Jenna's would no longer have any competition to worry about, but Jenna wouldn't have long to enjoy her victory. With Ivy returning to her criminal roots, she could exact her vengeance on the former groupie any way she chose.

And Ivy would devote the remainder of her spare time to getting back the incredible beauty that her image and reputation demanded. She'd even hire Selina as a _personal trainer_ if necessary.

She closed her eyes and sighed. Harley would have to fend for herself. The doctors certainly wouldn't let her visit any longer. Perhaps it was for the best. Harley's condition had only made her more depressed. If Ivy was going to cut her losses, then Harley would be just one more loss.

Tonight the Lounge would open as usual, and everyone would believe that Ivy was still tamed. She'd smile and serve drinks and let them point at her waistline behind her back.

And tomorrow, Poison Ivy would strike.

_____________________________________

Talia looked dubiously at herself in the mirror. Other than the fishnet stockings, which made her look like a whore, it was a fair approximation of what the little old tailor was preparing for her. Green, form-fitting spandex hugging her whole body, from her neckline down to her ankles. Oversized gloves, boots and belt in an abhorrent shade of purple. And a large question mark on her chest in that same appalling color, the upper curve caressing the swell of her breasts.

At least Edward had decided to make the question mark yellow instead of purple. It had not been her right to have a say in the matter, but she had sincerely hoped it would be yellow. The purple, well . . . it was all too reminiscent of the dreadful she-cat.

What rotten luck Talia had, she thought bitterly. After years of chasing her Beloved, only to lose in the end to the detestable Catwoman, she had now fallen in with a man who had made it very clear - Selina Kyle was his best friend, and if she forced him to choose between them, Talia would be "on the slow boat back to Mongolia".

Still, Talia could find some solace in the fact that Edward had taken her in, despite the Cat's own disapproval.

Talia sucked in her chest and leaned forward a bit more. Then she sighed. How she looked wasn't the problem. She had maintained her figure over the years, and even in the unforgiving spandex, she would not disappoint Edward.

The problem - oh, hells, why not be honest? There was more than one problem with the outfit, with this whole _situation_.

Fishnets or not, the outfit would have been considered a monstrosity in her father's court. In the society she had been raised since birth, any woman, even the Demon's Daughter, would have been viewed as the worst kind of criminal for dressing so. Clearly Gotham was not her father's court, judging from the way people like Catwoman or Poison Ivy dressed. But Talia's world followed her wherever she went. She looked in the mirror with ancient eyes and thought _Harlot_.

It was also, undeniably, a uniform. She'd found these clothes in a large box in a closet while looking around Edward's lair. The profusion of green tights, masks, and belts, everything covered with question marks, had made it clear. These things had all been worn by her predecessors. And now it was Talia's turn.

Over the years her rank had exempted her from DEMON dress codes. She had always dressed in her own unique style. The last time she had actually worn some kind of uniform was when she was much younger. Her father had sent her to Eger for three moons to undergo the training of the League of Assassins. It had been a formality only, so she could take her place as its leader, a role befitting the Demon Head's daughter.

And, for someone who had lived the pampered life of the Demon Head's daughter, every day had been like being struck with a bucket of cold water. She had been humiliated to learn that she could not perform up to the standard DEMON demanded. They had all seen it, her fellow students, her instructors. And yet she had been there among them and destined to be placed before them all. They had not hidden their contempt and hatred. The training was grueling and each day it grew worse, but she had stayed because her father demanded it. Stayed, that is, until she flunked out before making fifth-tier ajax.

It was not long after that her father had begun crafting schemes that involved marrying her off.

So Talia could be excused if she thought the big question mark on her chest was most fitting, since she had to wonder if this new experiment would be any more successful than the last. Or if Edward would be shipping her off a month from now. As far as she knew, being a criminal's sidekick in Gotham wasn't the same as being a DEMON assassin, but there had to be similarities. Was she doomed to fail here as well?

For the first time in years, Talia also found herself thinking of her mother. Had she felt like this before she married her father? Had Melisandre doubted herself before she became an extension of the Demon's Head?

Talia had no way of knowing. She barely remembered her. She'd mostly been raised by female servants and male tutors. And then she'd been assassinated while Talia was still a child. All her father would say of Melisandre was that she was very beautiful, and that she came from one of the best families. Perhaps that was all he knew of her. Anything else would probably have been irrelevant to him. For all Talia knew, her mother had been a genius - or dumb as a bag of sand.

She had no other example to learn from, though. Her mother would have been told to remain quiet, to look beautiful, and to serve her liege and husband. Talia could always do that. She'd been trained to do that her whole life.

She was not sure that was what Edward wanted, however. Certainly the sex had been different. Talia had never made love to a modern Western male before. Apparently Edward _wanted_ her to enjoy it, and to show her appreciation during copulation, rather than lying still and waiting for the man to do all the work.

And remaining quiet wasn't always going to be possible. Edward could talk without stopping for fifteen minutes at a time about subjects which she was quietly embarrassed to discover she knew little about. He was an absolutely brilliant man, perhaps almost as much as Beloved, and he expected her to tell him how smart he was. But he also expected her to try to keep up with him. It was very hard, but like the League of Assassins, she had tried.

The first step, Talia had found, had been deciphering Edward's language. It had taken time for her to understand that the ungrammatical and oddly constructed phrases which he would toss about, were actually anagrams of what he really had on his mind. If she wasn't going to look like an utter dolt, she had to figure out what those anagrams meant before she was left completely behind.

Her first minor success had come two days ago. He had paused for breath long enough for Talia to ponder the meaning of BROAD CHASERS and hesitantly ask, "This 'rare chessboard', how much security is there?" Edward had looked at her with something approaching satisfaction, and then told her how much. Talia had glowed inside, much as she glowed now thinking about it.

The Riddler hadn't been what she was looking for when she was searching for a new protector. And becoming a costumed sidekick hadn't been what she had in mind for herself. But Edward obviously found her attractive, and she suspected he would find her more attractive yet when he saw her in her new green (and yellow, let it be a good omen it was yellow) outfit.

It felt different to be wanted for something as simple as her looks. Father had wanted her because she was his heir. Beloved had wanted her only for her relationship to her father. So had Leivermore – and she'd proven just as unqualified at Lioncorp as she had at the League. Edward just wanted her because he was attracted to her. He liked something about _her_.

It felt different, and _good_, and easier somehow.

In fact, now that she thought of it, Talia rather thought she'd leave this older costume on until he returned.

She thought with some satisfaction that she could make him forget all about the hellcat for a while.

_________________________________

Clayface looked dubiously at the glass Ivy had just set down in front of him. "This is a Clay Pigeon?"

"No, it's a Greyhound," she said sweetly.

"I ordered a Clay Pigeon."

"And I don't care."

He leaned back. "Geez, you get a few extra customers and suddenly you think you're home free. Customer service never hurt anybody, you know."

Ivy smiled slyly at him. "Oh, don't worry, Hagen. Starting tomorrow, everyone here tonight will begin receiving my full and undivided attention."

Clayface looked a little troubled by this. Ivy resisted the urge to burst out laughing. She supposed she'd leave him alone after tonight. He'd done exactly what she asked for. It was nice seeing him obeying her orders.

But if he ever pulled a repeat of that _potpourri_ incident, all bets were off again.

Ivy continued to be all sweetness and light after that. She even sauntered a bit as she monitored the lounge. They could sneer and laugh behind their hands now. It'd be the last thing they enjoyed in quite some time. She felt FREE. They all thought she was there for their own private enjoyment, but she was enjoying it most of all.

The only problem would be Penguin. He would be due for another dose of pheromones later tonight, but there was no point. It wasn't like she could bring Cobblepot with her to Robinson Park, or like she even wanted to. He was adequate when it came to menial chores, she supposed, but she really didn't need another sidekick.

Not that she had any, not as long as Harley . . .

Ivy shrugged a bit uncomfortably. It was all up to Harley now. Did it hurt to see Harley like that? Yes, but Ivy had a new set of problems to worry about now.

Anyway, Penguin would probably be a little angry with her once he regained his senses. Okay, probably a lot. She'd cost him a great deal of money. It wouldn't be such a big deal if he simply chose to stick with her renovations, but knowing him, he'd insist on spending all that money to turn it back into an iceberg.

She'd let him rant and rave at her, but it wasn't like he could DO anything. Ivy certainly had no plans to stop using her special herbal supplements. If he thought he could keep her out of the Lounge without her turning everyone inside into male zombies and female BFFs, he was welcome to try!

She smiled to herself. You know, she might actually enjoy seeing the Batman again. It had been so long since she'd tried to kill him. It really brought back fond memories.

No matter what happened with Batman or Penguin or Jenna or anyone else, one thing wouldn't change. The Joker was still dead.

Gaia, that would always be enough for her.

"Ms. Isley?"

Ivy turned around. "Raven, what is it?"

"There's a phone call for you. It's Dr. Bartholomew from Arkham. He says it's important."

She raised an eyebrow. What on Gaia's green earth could be important enough to call her about at this hour?

A bolt of hope suddenly shot through her. Maybe Harley was better. Maybe Harley had _escaped_. And when Ivy returned to Robinson Park, Harley would be there waiting for her.

She almost fancied she could hear birds bursting into song.

Walking briskly to the front podium, Ivy picked up the phone. "Yes, doctor?" she asked pleasantly. "Mm-hm? . . . What? . . . What?"

The phone dropped from fingers that had gone numb in an instant. Ivy slowly turned to look at Raven. Whatever the hostess saw in Ivy's face, it made her blanch.

"I have to go," Ivy said blankly.

"Ms. Isley, what – "

"Close up without me," Ivy added. "I won't be back tonight."

Then Ivy turned and bolted out the front doors. She didn't even think about how she was going to get to Arkham at this hour. All she thought about was what Dr. Bartholomew had told her.

Harley had escaped from her cell. All well and good, but she hadn't gotten far. They found her in a restroom, unconscious, the scissors she'd used to slash her wrists still in one hand.

To be continued . . .


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"She's going to be all right," Dr. Bartholomew assured her. "There were multiple shallow cuts, but apparently she was located swiftly, and the blood loss wasn't extreme."

"Mm-hm," Ivy said absently. She was vaguely aware of what the doctor had said, which was more than she could say about how she'd arrived at Arkham. The minutes between leaving the Rydbergii, and seeing Harley asleep in her infirmary bed, were a chaotic mishmash from which she was unable to extract specific memories. She could have hailed a taxi. She could have stopped a random driver and greened him. Maybe she have hailed a taxi, then greened the driver.

Gaia, the Batman could have given her a ride on the Batmobile while singing along to the Carpenters on the radio, and Ivy wouldn't know. She just knew that she was seeing Harley now, and that it was impossible to deny it. Harley had tried to kill herself.

"Actually, I'm not entirely sure she was _actually_ trying to kill herself," Dr. Bartholomew told her.

Ivy's gaze snapped. She blinked her eyes rapidly and looked confused. "I'm sorry, what? She took a sharp instrument to her wrists and you're _not sure_?"

"Pamela, it's not as if Harleen was unfamiliar with sharp objects. Her lover was quite fond of them, as you know. I don't know how many people were sliced to bits at his hands, and I'm sure I don't _want_ to know. If Harleen really wanted to kill herself, she would have known to slash the underside of her forearms from her wrists to her elbows." He smiled grimly. "Or more likely, given herself a second smile. It would have appealed to her."

"Okay," Ivy said slowly, not bothering to correct his use of Harley's real name. He was irritatingly insistent about that. "I suppose that makes sense. So this was what then? More self-punishing? She needs to make herself bleed now?"

Her anger grew. "It's like she's built an altar to that fucking clown," she said savagely, "and she keeps trying to sacrifice herself on it."

"It's - possible," Dr. Bartholomew replied slowly, as if he hadn't considered that before. "But no, I believe it's much more likely that this was a cry for help. That's often the case in these situations. In fact, this incident could be viewed as a good thing. It's the most proactive Harleen has been in weeks, and if she wants our help, then perhaps we're finally getting through to her."

_Ivy_ was getting through to her. She wanted to believe that. Of course, she was only seeing Harley maybe six times a month, but that wasn't important. It was _her visits_. "Has she said as much to you?"

"No, she's awake but unresponsive."

"Let me try," Ivy said. Because it was her doing, after all. "Let me draw her out."

"There's no urgency, Pamela, but if you'd like to visit her for a few minutes, she can handle that much."

Ivy didn't bother to respond, or even nod her head. She was too busy resisting the urge to barrel into the infirmary at top speed. Instead she managed a normal pace as she went through the doors and headed over to Harley's bed.

"Harley," she murmured as she leaned over her friend. "Harl. It's me."

Harley's eyes gradually focused on Ivy. But even though she clearly heard Ivy, she didn't speak.

"You can tell me, Harley," Ivy said, sitting next to the bed. "No one else can hear. They all want you to say you were crying for their help, but you can tell me the truth. Why did you do it?"

Harley might as well have been a doll waiting for her bottle, for all the comprehension on her face. But Ivy could see, deep in her eyes, a spark of awareness.

Two minutes later, however, that spark had failed to ignite. Ivy couldn't tell if it was because of apathy, stubbornness, or just the sedatives. Whatever the reason, it dismayed her that she was having no more luck at getting answers from Harley than her doctors were. And they'd be asking her to leave soon. She had to know, though. She needed that validation tonight.

Ivy sucked in her breath. She did have one other tool at her disposal, besides their longstanding friendship, that the Arkham staff didn't have - her pheromones.

She was perfectly well aware that she didn't need pheromones to make Harley her friend, that Harley had sought her out many times of her own free will. Her experiences with her mystically charged pheromones, however, had shown Ivy that other women became not just friendly, but overly so, prone to complete supportiveness and the desire to help Ivy any way they could. Perhaps an extra-strength dose was the only thing to draw Harley out of her catatonic state.

And that was merely the worst-case scenario. There _was_ a second possibility with a higher chance of success.

After that little incident during her shoe-shopping excursion with Selina, Ivy had sought out proof that the impact her pheromones had on a person depended not on their gender, but on their sexual orientation. She'd surreptitiously visited a gay bar and "greened" several patrons. The gay males became her new best friends, while the lesbians displayed the same adoring, hopelessly mesmerized behavior that straight men did.

She supposed this was a new take on the word "experimenting".

Harley, however, was the first _bisexual_ person she'd ever used her pheromones on (that she knew of). Ivy was of course quite familiar with the incessant rumors about what she and Harley did together behind closed doors. Men were such disgusting, sex-obsessed, pornographic . . . at any rate, she and Harley did not "get it on", as the swine at the Lounge might say. Neither woman had ever gone "south of the border".

That being said, there had been - a time when Ivy had been in the middle of a very long dry spell. And well, no one had ever denied that Harley was quite attractive. Besides that, she was sweet and funny and enjoyed spending time with Ivy and called her "Red". Ivy had always been the kind of woman who only settled for the inferior male gender if there were no suitable women around. Of course, she had discovered what most male Rogues already knew - that there really weren't many _suitable_ women in their world.

It had also occurred to her that if a little seduction would help break the hold that beastly Joker had over Harley, then she was all for it.

So, there had been a night years ago when Ivy had all but invited Harley to share her bed. Harley had ignored the obvious implication, intentionally or otherwise, and assumed Ivy wanted to have a "slumber party". A few nights later, Ivy had been a bit more forward, putting her arm over Harley's shoulders while the two watched TV and leaving it there. Harley had gently, perhaps even wistfully, disengaged herself and gone to bed early. Ivy could have been disappointed and hurt and infuriated that yet again Harley was choosing "Puddin" over her, but she preferred to think it just showed that Harley was totally, disappointingly straight.

A week later, however, they had eluded the Batmobile during a particularly intense chase through Gotham. The Batmobile had crashed, and for a few moments they allowed themselves to imagine that the fool hadn't survived. It had been exciting and thrilling and, caught up in the adrenaline, Ivy had looked at Harley's joyous face and thought she'd never looked more beautiful. Their eyes had met and . . . well, suffice it to say they'd twice barely avoided crashing themselves by the time they got back to the hideout. What might have followed would have been incredible, she was sure, but they'd been so focused on each other that they failed to notice the Bat had caught up with them, and they'd been cuffed and on their way to Arkham before they'd even made it inside.

Ivy deeply resented the Bat for it. She didn't know why he couldn't have waited an hour. It wasn't like they were GOING anywhere.

Still, it was a favorite memory.

Anyway, she missed her chance. It would be weeks before she found herself alone with Harley again, and by then Harley had evidently decided she couldn't be with Ivy and still be the Joker's girl. Ivy's hints and overtures met an invisible barrier, and eventually she'd bitterly blamed the Joker and moved on.

Still, if Harley was attracted to women as well as men, then there was a chance that Ivy's pheromones would leave her hypnotized and unable to resist telling Ivy anything, including the truth behind her suicide attempt.

Leaning close, Ivy hit her with a full blast, drenching Harley in a perfume of jungle fruit. As she did, it occurred to Ivy that if she'd known sooner that her pheromones were sexuality-based, she could have "greened" Harley long ago, made her leave the Joker for good.

That thought, however, was immediately followed by the understanding that Harley wouldn't have been a real friend. She would have been compelled to be one, like Selina had been. She would have _stopped _being Ivy's friend whenever they were apart. She even might have begun _avoiding_ her. So maybe it was for the best then.

Harley's eyelashes fluttered, and some color entered her cheeks. She raised her head and looked into Ivy's eyes. "Hiya, Red," she said, sounding tired but upbeat. "What's shakin'?"

Ivy's heart skipped a beat. She couldn't remember the last time her friend had talked to her like this. "Harley," she said, a genuine smile playing on her face. "How are you feeling?"

"Eh, can't complain," Harley said, trying to wave a hand before discovering her wrist was cuffed to the bed. She looked around. "Arkham infirmary, huh?"

"Yes, Harl. You scratched yourself, remember?" Ivy asked gently.

Harley looked puzzled. She stared at the bandages visible on her lower arm. "No - uh, I didn't do nuthin', Red."

Ivy sighed. Either the pheromones and the painkillers were playing with her memories, or Harley was in denial. Or worse. She bet on the latter, and breathed more intoxicating fumes into Harley's face. "Think back, Harley."

"Red, uh, I don't feel so good. Is it hot in here?" Harley asked, looking a little dazed.

"Harley, last night you escaped from your cell, and you broke into a doctor's office, and you cut yourself with scissors. Don't you remember?"

Harley's smile became frozen, and she shook her head slightly. "Nope, not me. You know, maybe it was that little invisible guy from Family Circus. You know, he gets away with everything."

"Harley, tell me, _please_. Why in Gaia's name would you ever try to kill yourself?"

"I never did that!" Harley replied gaily, although her voice was laced with anxiety. "Red, you're bein' silly."

"Tell me the truth!"

"I am! Sam I am! I yam what I yam!" Harley said stubbornly.

Ivy paused. It wasn't conceivable that Harley could lie to her under this level of compulsion. Rage suddenly blossomed in her veins as she considered for the first time the thought that someone had done this to her. "Then what happened?" Ivy said intently, taking her by the shoulders and giving her an extra whiff of green. "How did you get those cuts on your arms? Who did this to you? Tell me!"

Harley was motionless for a moment, and then her eyes slid left and right, surveying the infirmary with something close to shrewdness. Then she gave Ivy a malevolent, toothy grin that made the other woman let go of her and recoil.

"Why Pammy, when Harley showed up on your door with cuts and bruises all those other times, you never had to ask how, did you?"

Ivy's fury was immediately supplanted by a shock that paralyzed her. The quiet voice that had come out of Harley's mouth had been an almost perfect impression of . . .

Harley winked theatrically at her. "A-hahaha," she laughed softly.

This wasn't possible. The very idea was monstrous beyond belief. To hear an almost exact replica of the Joker's voice, his laugh, coming out of Harley's mouth was a blasphemy.

And then Ivy was forced to flee the room as she was overcome with nausea. She ran for the nearest bathroom and promptly threw up.

Ivy let her head hang and she panted heavily when it was over. There was no way this could be, she willed it not to be so!

But then, very little had happened the way she willed it lately, hadn't it?

Her mind raced through possibilities. The Joker, she reluctantly admitted, had been incredibly devious and a genius in certain scientific areas. But it was too deranged, even for him, to think that he had decided to cheat death some day by somehow imprinting his personality into Harley's brain. What, did he put his DNA in a microchip and surgically attach it to the back of her neck?!

Possession from beyond the grave was, she supposed, not entirely impossible, but still far-fetched. And the voice had been _almost_ like Joker's, but not completely.

But Harley, Ivy knew, had a largely unexplored talent for mimicry. She'd practically given herself a new voice when she became the Joker's sidekick. For someone as obsessed with the Joker as Harley was, how hard it would it be for her to imitate him? For someone who spent so much time with him, listened to his rants, knew so well how his mind worked . . .

Ivy felt herself grow cold. Obsession - the Joker was the object of Harley's obsessive love. Harley had killed that object. Her knowledge of that had been killing her. What if Harley decided to undo her actions - by making the Joker alive again?

She was just delusional and determined enough to do it.

And if Harley kept on doing it, then wouldn't the Joker eventually become a separate personality in her own mind? Eventually, inevitably, the dominant one, like he'd always been?

As Ivy lifted her head from the toilet, she was seized by a moment of perfect clarity. Usually, these moments were the genesis of a perfect scheme that would protect her cherished plants and punish their oppressors, if only that cursed Batman would ever realize he was beaten. This time, however, it took the shock and revulsion that weighed on her spirit and transformed them into pure horror.

She saw a figure in a purple suit with green hair and bleached-white skin, cackling insanely in a horribly familiar voice as it dispensed Smilex gas on a terrified group of people. She saw the figure carrying on a conversation with itself in two different voices, perhaps even trying to shoot itself in the leg in a fit of infuriated madness. And no matter how much the doctors, or Ivy, or anyone tried to help her, Harley Quinn would belong to the Joker mind, body, and soul, for the rest of her life.

Ivy vomited again.

When she finally stumbled out of the bathroom minutes later, shaken and pale, she briefly considered going to Dr. Bartholomew's office. But she dismissed it. What would she tell him? That Harley hadn't actually attempted suicide, he was already predisposed to believe. But that the Joker's voice was in her head, and had driven her to mutilate herself as punishment for "trying" to kill him? He _might_ believe her if there was evidence, but Ivy knew with bleak certainty that there would be no evidence. The Joker in Harley's mind was already clever enough to make sure that no one else had been in hearing distance when "he" exposed "himself" to Ivy. Ivy was supposed to be tortured with the knowledge that she could do nothing while the doctors went on treating Harley for depression, when in fact her diagnosis was something much worse. She would spend the rest of her life a victim of her own self-inflicted torture.

Ivy was the only person who knew. Which meant, Ivy realized, she was the only person who could save Harley. And she had to save her. What Harley was doing to herself was worse than anything the Joker had done to her when he was alive. Gaia, this was all her f--uck, if she didn't leave now, she was going to be too late for the bank deposit.

Ivy started walking briskly out of Arkham. It wouldn't be as easy to get Harley out of Arkham, but get her out Ivy must. Get her away from these useless, blind "doctors" and into Ivy's personal care. She would take great joy in driving that miserable bastard out of Harley's head.

At last, she'd found something she was reasonably certain of success at. She'd broken out of Arkham many times. Breaking someone else out would be no more challenging.

Still, that brisk walk was almost a run by the time she got outside.

_____________________________________________________

Jenna glared at the spreadsheets as if she could will the numbers into something more to her liking. It was easier than answering the question right away. "It's a blip," she finally said. "A strictly short-term problem."

"Well, I'm glad you think so," Stewart Mercury said. "It's a nice ability, actually. Because I can never tell if a new problem is going to be a short-term or long-term issue. But you can look into the future and see that this is just a 'blip'."

Jenna bit her tongue. The restauranteur was one of her largest investors, but she still sometimes thought of him as "Mopey Dog". It didn't matter what cute nickname she gave him, though. She could call him "Pretty Butterfly", and he'd still be someone whose opinion she had to listen to. "It can't last, Stewart. The basic premise hasn't changed. Poison Ivy simply _cannot_ run a successful operation. When they shut down, the others will have no choice but to return."

"By the others, I assume you're referring to the Rogues and their followers," Stewart replied. "You saw a twenty-four percent drop last month."

"Yes, and I've received reports that business at the Rydbergii is up," Jenna said. "When the Lounge closes and they no longer have that option . . ."

"Then we'll have a bigger problem."

Jenna stared at him. "What are you talking about?"

Stewart held up another sheaf of spreadsheets in his hand. Since Day One they'd kept three separate sets of records - one for the high-profile Rogues, one for the common criminals, and a third for the law-abiding customers. Under Jenna's business model, the main Rogues had unlimited tabs which they would never be asked to pay. So did certain hardcore gang members and henchmen who were clearly identified with their bosses, such as King Snake's Ghost Dragons and Scarface's organized crime rejects. Jenna's didn't want them for their money, and nobody was even sure how to _collect_ money from such people. Jenna's wanted them for their notoriety. They were there to be looked at. On the books their drink orders were listed as "entertainment expense".

All other henchmen, and all groupies, had to pay. They were tracked separately from all other paying customers solely because their presence was directly tied to the Rogues, and it was presumed that they would leave if their employers ever did.

The third group, the ordinary people of Gotham, was who Jenna's relied on. They were the largest segment of their customer base, and they were the only ones who could be considered "regulars". It was hard for a criminal to be a regular, after all, when they tended to spend months or years in prison. And the hope was that they would build a loyalty to Jenna's that would persist even if the Rogues were gone. That was where Jenna's was supposed to be within three years - criminal-free.

It was the spreadsheets for that third group which Stewart held up for her. "Revenues for our target demographic fell thirty-five percent last month, Jenna."

Jenna winced. "You know about the incidents we had. It was bound to make some people nervous. Give them time, Stewart. They'll get over their fears and come back."

"And how will they get over those fears, Jenna?" Stewart asked. "There are homicidal maniacs in our club."

"They've been there from the start!" Jenna burst out. "This whole enterprise is _predicated_ on their presence. Why is it bothering you now?"

"It's bothering me now because the customers were supposed to be safe. We always assumed that our rational patrons would understand on some level that they were in a building filled with sleeping tigers, and that it wouldn't do to provoke them."

"And that hasn't happened, Stewart. Those three incidents weren't the fault of our paying customers."

Stewart sighed. "I see you're missing the point, Jenna. That's exactly the problem. What happened to the Rogues wasn't something any of us would consider 'provocation' - but clearly they didn't feel the same way. Our logical, rational assumptions have held so far. But these Rogues_ aren't logical, rational people._ And now there are a lot of former customers out there who have realized that they can be as careful as they like - and they're still in danger!"

"What do you want me to do?" Jenna complained. Really, the Rogues weren't rational people? Didn't he _live_ in this city? "How do I make them feel safe? Keep the Rogues out? I'd like a suggestion as to how I accomplish _that_! And even if I could, they'd have no choice but to go back to the Rydbergii, and suddenly Poison Ivy becomes an actual competitor!"

"No," Stewart agreed. "We can't make them stay away." He chuckled bitterly. "The Rogues are a literal 'elephant in the room'. Everyone was prepared to ignore it - until it became an enraged elephant bull on stampede!" Then he glared at Jenna. "This was your brilliant idea," he said. "You had to have anticipated the _possibility_ of this happening. Don't you have any, I don't know, protocols?"

Jenna hadn't really thought it out beyond "grinding Poison Ivy's club into the ground", which she thought would have happened by now. She didn't say that, though. She didn't want the investors thinking that her reasons for opening the nightclub were more than just profit motive. They might try to replace her. And _that_ would not be happening. She'd see the Rydbergii _burn_ before that happened. Burn with Ivy inside of it.

"I already know what to do," she said, improvising. The goal was to ruin Ivy, right? She thought Jenna's could do that on its own, but the plant bitch had managed to stay alive. The only silver lining was that Ivy had to be losing money hand over fist to keep the club open. But at this rate, there was no telling how long until the Rydbergii shut down.

Therefore, further steps were necessary. But she'd have to couch them in terms that Mercury could understand. She had to make it about the club, and not about debasing and humiliating Ivy.

"We need to drive the Rydbergii out of business immediately," she went on. "The Rogues may be irrational, but they're also very protective of their own self-interest. If the Rogues see the Lounge close, they may understand that they can't _afford_ to cause trouble, because their only other option is gone. And if that happens, word of mouth is going to get around that Jenna's is safe after all."

Mercury grimaced, but then he nodded. "Simple logic," he admitted. "We can't get rid of them, so we neuter them instead. But it's not our decision when the Rydbergii closes. Whatever else Ivy may not have, she must have a hell of a lot of outside funding."

Jenna smiled. "Yeah, but all the money in the world won't help her if she's back in Arkham."

"She's stayed out of trouble this long. I wouldn't rely on the assumption she's going back any time soon."

"Ivy's like a bull," she replied. "Wave a big enough red flag in front of her, and she'll always charge. We just need to find a red flag of our own." She paused. "Not a red flag. Maybe something . . . green."

____________________________

Raven looked at her watch for the eightieth time. It was only an hour until the Lounge opened, Ivy _still_ hadn't showed yet, and Raven hadn't decided if that was a good thing or not.

While there had yet to be a night where Ivy simply failed to appear, there _had_ been nights where she might as well have. Sometimes Ivy had barricaded herself in her office and refused to answer for anyone. But, as far as Raven could tell, business hadn't been affected in the slightest. In fact, if she could have, Raven would have advertised that Ivy was secluding herself. Everyone at the Rydbergii except its proprietress knew that Poison Ivy's presence was the main thing keeping customers away.

That being said, business was up. It was up even though Ivy was still here. Granted, there appeared to be a level of voyeurism to it - male customers wanted to see Ivy working as a glorified barmaid. But that didn't alter the fact that business was up, and that Ivy had something to do with it. In that case, Raven wanted Ivy to show up tonight.

Plus there had been instances in the past where employees, including Raven herself, had been forced to make managerial decisions in certain areas because Ivy had abdicated the responsibility that night. No one had gotten fired for it, but everyone would feel better if those decisions were left to the one person with the authority.

Dove came up to Raven's podium. "Raven, I think there's something you need to see."

"What is it?"

"There's a package in front of Ivy's door, and no one knows what it is or how it got there."

Well, _that_ didn't sound good.

Raven followed Dove up to Ivy's office. On the floor was, sure enough, a tall package with no identifying features. "Ask around," she told Dove. "_Some_body knows something. Someone had to let the delivery person into the building. I'll - see if I can figure out what it is."

Dove left, and Raven stared at the Pandora's Box in front of her. Everyone knew that Ivy, and Penguin before her, was knee-deep in the black market. Generally they kept it separate from the Lounge operations, but it was possible that Raven was looking at stolen goods. If that was the case, that might explain why nobody appeared to know anything. Thieves, after all, were good at breaking into places.

If this was stolen property, Raven sure as hell didn't want to know about it. But she couldn't just leave it in the hallway either. So she opened the door, turned on the lights, and picked up the box to bring it inside.

It was somewhat heavy, and she could hear things rustling inside that reminded her of snakes. _Stolen snakes?_ Raven was liking this less and less. She put it on Ivy's desk and began inspecting it more closely.

Dove returned a few minutes later, just as Raven had been forced to conclude that there was nothing to be seen. Rectangular box, brown wrapping paper, no addressee, no return address, nothing. "It was Gina," she said. "She was in the washroom when I asked around the first time. She said a courier came to the door a couple hours ago with the package for Ivy. She signed for it and watched the guy leave it here."

"A courier," Raven said. Well, that probably ruled out stolen goods. She had a hard time believing any of Ivy's cronies would use a public courier service to make a delivery. One accident with the package, and the police would be notified.

So what the heck was it?

"What should we do?" Dove asked.

See, this was what Raven had been thinking. This was not a decision for a _hostess_, but because Ivy was AWOL, suddenly it was her concern. She sighed. "Get back to prepping," she said. "I'll . . . I'll open it. If Ivy gets here and doesn't like what's inside, Gina can kiss her job goodbye."

Dove didn't need any prodding. She clearly didn't want to be part of the plan if it went wrong. Raven watched her go jealously. How the hell had this happened? She used to be the Iceberg Lounge hostess. She manned the gate. And now she was Ivy's - _sidekick_. She'd become Quinn!

Carefully Raven unwrapped the brown paper, but she stopped when she wasn't even halfway finished. The exterior of the box clearly indicated what was inside.

Flowers.

Someone had sent Poison Ivy, world's most famous eco-terrorist, cut flowers. Dead, mangled, suffering victims of injustice. It was like sending aborted fetuses to a pro-life activist.

Appalled, Raven's first impulse was to take the whole thing and throw it away immediately, but she decided to open it instead. Maybe she could figure out who would be so insane as to provoke Ivy like this.

Inside the box was a second, bigger shock. There was a beautiful bouquet of roses inside, easily costing over a hundred dollars at any florist. Raven would have loved to be the recipient of such a bouquet, except for one thing.

The roses were black.

It didn't take a rocket scientist to know that you didn't send people black roses on Valentine's Day. You were more likely to see them at a funeral. It occurred to Raven for the first time that the sender wasn't just trying to provoke Ivy. Maybe they were threatening her.

A hint of white peeked out from the somber beauty of the roses, and Raven cautiously reached through the petals to take the small envelope out. She opened it and read it with growing horror.

_Pamela,_

_So sorry to hear about your friend Quinn. Hoping she gets better soon!_

_Yours truly, Jenna Leibowitz_

Raven knew why Ivy was missing. They all knew why. The news had gotten wind of Harley Quinn's attempted suicide hours ago. It had to be why Ivy had run out of the Lounge last night like Death was after her. And when Jenna found out, she'd done - this. Raven couldn't even begin to imagine a more viciously provocative gesture anybody could have made to Poison Ivy.

What the hell was that woman _thinking? _Ivy would have exploded if she had seen this. She'd be infuriated on a level seldom seen in Gotham. And she'd make a beeline right for Jenna's to try to - what? Strangle Jenna? Poison her? Shoot her? Something lethal, Raven had no doubt. She'd even do it if she had to wade through Jenna's entire staff and a hundred customers!

It didn't happen very often, but Raven felt a stab of sympathy for her employer. She didn't like Ivy very much, but it was obvious that Ivy cared about Harley. And, aside from her Joker-fixation and some over-the-top perkiness, Harley was a sweet girl compared to most of their regulars, and for that reason she was probably one of the old Iceberg's most popular customers. Everyone at the Rydbergii had been sorry to hear about her suicide attempt.

And in the wake of devastating news, Jenna had attacked Ivy in the lowest, cruelest way possible.

But while Raven may have felt sympathy on Ivy's behalf, mainly she felt a rush of anxiety. If Ivy was going to make an appearance, fine. But it couldn't happen until _after_ Raven made all of this disappear.

Throwing the note back into the box and shoving it closed, Raven took the package and hurried downstairs with it. She knew just who to give it to.

"Gina, I've got something for you to do, and you need to do it right now," she said once she'd arrived at the washroom.

Gina took one look at the half-unwrapped package in Raven's arms, saw the outside of the box, and gave a little squeal of horror. "Raven, I didn't - "

"I know you didn't, but you let it in, so you can take it out. I don't just want it thrown in the garbage. I want you to take this and throw it into the river. Or _burn it,_ if that's easier. Just make it not exist, okay? In fact, make it _never-was_. Capisce?"

She unceremoniously shoved the box into Gina's arms and headed back to her podium. That was all she wanted, the damn podium. Not to have to worry about this shit any longer.

That, and for Ivy to stay away for another few minutes.

_______________________________

"Miss Selina has asked that you wait for her in the morning room," Bruce Wayne's butler told Ivy. "She will be down shortly."

"Er, okay," Ivy said. She followed the butler and his very subtle air of disdain. It _wasn't _okay, she wanted to meet with Selina, now, she didn't want to wait, there wasn't any _time_. But she didn't say any of that. She just meekly followed a man and sat where he indicated. 

There was a vase of cut flowers in one corner of the room, but Ivy swallowed her ire. This wasn't the place to lecture Selina. Even if it was possible that Selina had _purposely_ left them there, making a show of her careless massacre of plantlife just to keep Ivy in her place. Ivy had called Selina. She had said Selina was "the only friend that can help now". So if Selina was making a show of her power, it was only because Ivy had given it to her: She said Selina was the only one who could help her, she insisted on coming over to talk, Selina had said yes.

So she pretended not to see the flowers.

When Selina finally came in, Ivy was so frazzled with Harley and the Joker and the Rydbergii and "not seeing the murdered babies" that she lurched from her chair and offered Selina her hand like she was applying for a job – or a bank loan – a job or a bank loan she really, _really_ needed.

Selina didn't know _what_ to do with that—the gesture, that is. The hand she shook, it was the only civilized thing to do, but the sheer alien wrongness of Batman's two greatest foes saying hello with a handshake as if they were rival insurance salesmen from Ipswich, it broke both their rhythms. Neither really knew how to proceed after such an opening, and an awkward joint sideways walking led them back to the chairs. Ivy was once again in the visitor's chair she began in. Selina took a seat behind a large writing desk—which was worse than the handshake for making Ivy feel like she'd come for a free legal consultation, leading to another 10 seconds of awkward silence.

"So," Selina finally said. "I heard about Harley. I'm very sorry."

Ivy winced. It did break the silence and even introduced the subject she had no idea how to broach, but just the name evoked a dark cloud.

"Thanks," she muttered uncomfortably.

"Is she… How is she? Stable at least?"

Ivy surprised herself, and probably Selina too, by bursting out into hysterical laughter that left her almost breathless. She clapped her hands over her mouth. "No," she choked out. "No, she's not stable."

"Ivy… Pammy, I didn't mean that way, I meant, well you know, after the blood loss. Stable as in pulse and blood pressure and all the rest of it. Out of danger."

"I know what you meant," Ivy said dully. "And she's NOT. She's not out of danger, Selina. She's not stable in any sense of the word. She's not going to be all right if any of this is allowed to continue."

"Well, at least she's in a hospital. I'm sure her doctors…"

"Her doctors don't know anything!" Ivy burst out. "They don't know. They don't know - what I do. And that's why I asked to speak with you."

"Okay," Selina said slowly. "What do _I_ have to do with it?"

Ivy sat up straight and looked her in the eye. "I need to hire Catwoman for a job," she said. "I need to get Harley out of there. I need you to, well, _steal_ Harley from Arkham."

Selina blinked. "Say that again?"

"Harley can't stay there, Selina" Ivy said. "She'll die if she's left in there with those, those stupid, stupid MEN who have no idea what's really happening to her. I have to get her out, and I need your help for that."

"Okay well first, I don't see how _mental hospital_ in the care of _doctors_ is such a bad place for a suicidal person, and we'll get to that next. But first, Ivy, not to belabor the obvious, but you've broken out of Arkham thirty-eight times without any help from anybody. Why do you need me?"

"Because all those times I had a plan, Selina. I would plan for days in advance. I don't have that here, nor do I have days to come up with one. And even if I did, I… I don't have the resources." Ivy smiled bitterly. "I don't exactly have killer vines or a fully-stocked lab in my apartments above the Lounge, and there are reasons I can't resort to greening any Arkham staffers right now."

Selina tapped her fingers on the desk. "Okay, well, that's a breakthrough of sorts, I suppose. Maybe take it as a sign. Pammy, I know you've always thought you know what's best for Harley, and maybe that was true when Joker was alive. But now… Pamela just think about it. She opened up her wrists. She's where she needs to be."

"She didn't attempt suicide."

"Come on, Pammy, she didn't cut herself shaving. Even if it wasn't an aggressive, serious attempt, she still—"

"No, Selina," Ivy cut her off. "Well, yes, you're right that it wasn't a 'serious' attempt… You're right in the worst way possible, in fact. You do remember who was never 'serious.'"

"I don't follow," Selina said quietly.

"She wasn't serious about killing herself, Selina, but it wasn't a 'cry for help' either. It's not what Dr. Bart or any of them up at Arkham think. Selina... _The Joker did it._"

"Ivy," Selina said with exaggerated gentleness, "the Joker is chopped-up little pieces now."

"I know that!" Ivy retorted, irritated. "And Harley knows that too—or at least she did. But she doesn't want to know it any more. She wants to believe the Joker is _alive_. And so she's… she's made it so that he is. If she has to start carrying on a conversation with herself in two different voices to make it so he's still right there with her, then she's going to do it! And if she can carry on his end of the conversation, she can wield his end of the knifeblade for him."

Selina leaned back in her chair, dumbstruck.

"So you're saying that Harley hurt herself… because she's spun off a piece of herself to be Joker? You're saying she did this so she could tell herself that Puddin' did it to her?"

Ivy nodded. "So you see why I have to get her away from there!"

"No, I don't see that, Pamela! You've just described a whole new level of fucked in the head that says Arkham is where she belongs."

"HER DOCTORS DON'T HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT'S WRONG WITH HER!" Ivy screeched.

"So tell them."

"No."

"No. Pammy, I'm sorry, your logic is just whacked on this one. And even if I did see it your way, even if I wanted to help you, there's just no way. You're not the only person who needs a plan before they break into a maximum security building. I broke in ONCE to drop off Joker that time, that's it. Shouldn't you be recruiting someone who has, I don't know, been a patient or something. Has something closer to your experience breaking OUT of the place? "

"No," Ivy said quickly. "That's not possible now."

"What's not possible?"

"I'm sorry, Selina, but you're not the first person I went to see about this," Ivy admitted. "I went to Harvey, and he… he turned me down. Without benefit of a coinflip, mind you. It seems he is not 'of two minds' where I am concerned. He said that he was sorry about Harley, but that… that he would swallow his coin before he would help me open a jar."

Ivy almost choked on the memory of what else Harvey had said. _You reap what you sow, Pammy. You appreciate gardening metaphors, don't you? You reap what you sow. You don't demand help because you're a fucking goddess. You EARN it, Pammy. So look in the goddamn mirror and ask yourself when's the last time you were there for anybody when they needed it? When was the last time you did a favor for ANYONE? _

She'd done more than enough looking in the mirror the day before, thank you very much. But she already knew the answer to that question. The only person she'd ever done a favor for was Harley. Why should she do a favor for some stupid, smelly man? What had they ever done for her?

For the first time, Ivy had realized that went both ways.

Before she knew it, the memory of Harvey's harsh words brought tears to Ivy's eyes.

"Ivy?"

"You have to help me, Selina," Ivy said, rubbing her eyes. "I'll give you all the technical information you need about Arkham, anything at all you need to get in and out. You ask, it's yours. I'll walk you through everything. I'll do whatever it takes. I just want Harley out of there, and I want her out _now_."

"You can't always get what you want, when you want it, Pammy," Selina told her, and her words were close enough to what Harvey had said that the last remnants of Ivy's self-control snapped. "Why not just do what I said earlier and warn her doctors? Why does it have to be you?"

"_Because it's my FUCKING fault, all right?!"_ Ivy shrieked. "Those brainwashed, mesmerized _fools_ killed the Joker because Harley told them to! On some level Harley knows that, and she's been blaming herself for it ever since! **So much so that now this Ghost of Joker she's resurrected is punishing her for it. **And it **all **happened because of me! I could see what was happening that night, but I wanted the Joker _dead_ and Harley _free_, and I didn't stop them. I could have. You know I could have. Harley's the only person left in this miserable, dying, plant-hating world who I still care about, Selina! And _this_ is what I've done to her?!"

And then Ivy burst into bitter, helpless tears. She wept even though Selina was right there with her, although she barely noticed Selina slipping out to give her some privacy. A goddess didn't show weakness in front of other people, but fuck it, she'd be a mortal for one day.

She could go back to being a goddess when Harley was out.

________________________________

Bruce was just slipping out from behind the grandfather clock when Selina arrived. He'd seen and heard everything on the cave cameras, and when he saw Selina leave the room, he'd guessed she was coming to speak with him. "Is it safe to leave her alone like that?" he asked.

"It's okay, Alfred's in the hall, but we won't need him. A crying jag like that, a normal person will take five minutes to get themselves together. But Pammy? Bruce, Pammy has never lost it before, that I know of. I think we've got a good fifteen minutes before she's open for business." Then she shook her head. "You heard?"

Bruce nodded. "Just what we suspected about Joker's death. I suppose I should be relieved to have it confirmed. There's no forensic or anecdotal evidence of greened victims obeying anyone but Ivy, but those DEMON assassins were so new to Gotham. They simply didn't know her voice. They probably would have followed orders from the coat check girl."

"'Should be relieved' then, I agree. Is dotted, Ts crossed. You should be one happy detective… but you're not."

"No."

"Because of what Ivy said about Harley? Do you believe her when she says Harley is trying to resurrect the Joker in her own mind?"

"Yes, I believe it," Bruce said quietly. "She has no reason to lie. Whether Harley is suicidal in the usual way or if she has this emerging personality, the situation is equally urgent from Ivy's point of view. There's just no reason to add a detail like that if it wasn't true… unfortunately."

"Unfortunately for Harley or…?"

"Or for the rest of us?" Bruce winced. "Both. Arkham doesn't exactly have a sterling track record with multiple personality disorder. But the thought of Quinn copycatting Joker is just as bad for Gotham. With her years of experience as his sidekick, she knows his methods, his 'reasoning' for lack of a better word. And she has a third party's perspective on how vicious he was. It's buried pretty deep under all that 'affection' she had for him, but somewhere in her subconscious is Dr. Harleen Quinzel's knowledge of the psychopath. She could, potentially, be a more lethal Joker than Joker was.

"Poor Gotham," Selina sighed. "And poor Harley. Damn, we do seem to be going from bad to worse since Joker's… you don't think he pulled a Mercutio, left some curse dangling over us with his dying breath or something?"

Bruce scowled.

"Yeah, okay, not funny," she conceded. "Still… It's Ivy who's bothering me in all this, not Joker. Bruce, when's the last time you heard Ivy _take responsibility_ for something?"

None of Arkham's most famous repeat visitors were exactly known for admitting they were wrong. Generally they blamed all of their mistakes on him, and Poison Ivy was no exception.

"Never," he admitted.

"Neither have I. Despite the screeching, that scene in the study just now was the most rational, sensible, _normal_ thing I've ever heard come out of her mouth. Don't you think we should, I don't know, reinforce the behavior somehow? Give her a biscuit?"

"Selina, you're not actually considering - "

"Breaking into Arkham so I can steal _Harley_? Hell no. Woof in fact. But I am ready to give Pammy the benefit of the doubt that Harley needs saving and that Arkham isn't the best place to get that result. Maybe… I don't believe I'm about to say this, but _maybe_ Pammy actually is. I mean, the goddess just faced up to reality for the first time in her life. If Harley's situation brought that about, maybe we _could_ try keeping those two wacky kids together by, I don't know, steering Ivy in the right direction somehow."

"We," Bruce repeated. "By 'we', you mean Batman. You want Batman to help Poison Ivy."

Selina bit her lip.

"No, I don't think I do. Bruce Wayne maybe, and helping Pamela, not Poison Ivy."

"That's NOT what you mean. Look, Selina, if I allow that she has a borderline reasonable goal: Harley out of Arkham, she is still approaching it with a rogue mentality. Approaching another rogue to break someone out of jail is hardly the way sane rational people go about achieving their ends."

"Exactly, she's in unfamiliar waters and she needs direction. She needs _handled_, Bruce. Think of it this way: it probably does save Harley's life if we get her out of Arkham. If we do it in such a way that Ivy maybe becomes _a better person_, win-win for Gotham, right? Laissez faire approach, on the other hand, leads to Harley impersonating Joker and Ivy having a total meltdown. The Harley part might be speculation, but Ivy's breakdown is a done deal. She's already started, and she started in _your house_. Bruce Wayne may still be on the fence here, but I really think Batman's decision has been made for him."

It was a persuasive argument.

The fact was, Bruce was more pessimistic about Arkham's chances with Harley than either Selina or Isle were. It wasn't fact that Quinn's doctors seemed _completely_ unaware of her condition, it was the track record. Year after year, rogue after rogue, they went in bad and they came out worse.

"All right," he said finally in an ominous gravel. "Assuming Ivy is the kind of person who CAN be helped."

"Well, I guess we'll find out," Selina replied. She smirked at him. "Who knows, it might even be fun."

He grunted.

To be continued . . .


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Ivy stood in front of the mirror and tried to clean herself up. The flood of tears and self-recriminations had been completely undignified, and she appreciated the fact that Selina gave her space.

Finally she gave up, though. She already looked a mess with the poor complexion and the dark circles. What were flushed cheeks and red eyes on top of that?

"Pammy?"

Ivy brushed her hair back with one hand, as if everything looked just fine, and turned around. "Selina, I'm sorry. Normally I would never behave so, but it was a momentary weakness."

"It was more like fifteen minutes," Selina said kindly, "Don't worry about it, Pammy. Happens to the best of us."

Ivy glanced at the clock and winced at the correction. "Yes, all right, perhaps it was that long," she admitted. "But I assume you've had enough time to realize that you need to help me?"

As always, Ivy knew exactly the WRONG way to say whatever it was she was saying, and despite the sympathetic stance Selina had taken with Bruce, Feline Independence now rebelled. "You need to help me" indeed!

"I agree that _Harley_ needs help," Selina said tersely. "And I may regret this, but I'm willing to stretch the premise to include helping you to help her."

Hope blossomed in Ivy's heart. "Thank you," she replied earnestly. "Now, I can get you blueprints in an hour, and then – "

"Whoa, whoa, let's back that train of thought up right now. I'm not going to help you _break Harley out of an asylum_."

Ivy stared at her blankly. "But you said – "

"I said I'd help you help her, and I will. The way sane, rational people go about it. Not the Arkham way that gets summed up later as 'zany hijinx ensued'."

"But I need to get her out of there _now_, Selina!"

"And what happens after that, hm?" Selina asked calmly. "You'll take her on the run with you? Thelma and Louise tearing up Route 66 in a souped up convertible? Pammy, either she's _suicidal_ or she's developed _a split personality_. Either way, it's going to take time to straighten her out. Time you _won't have_ if you're running from the cops and Batman and possibly the National Guard if she takes her inner Joker out for a spin?"

"It will be difficult, yes, I suppose," Ivy acknowledged, "but I don't have an alternative. They're certainly not going to _let_ her out any time soon."

"They might," Selina said cautiously. "This is Arkham we're talking about. They're predisposed to let patients out; it's the path of least resistance. Pammy, don't you see, they'll want to get rid of her and clear the case, have that credit for the corresponding debit, it's how they operate. If she gets better — better _enough_, at least — and if there is an attractive enough candidate to fob her off on, they'll let her go. She's in Arkham under a civil commitment order, right? So if she can get to a point where she's no longer considered a danger to herself, then you can get a court to release her into your care."

Ivy snorted. "_If_ she got better, why would a court take _my_ side? I'm not exactly a model citizen in their eyes!"

"No, this is the hard part. They won't release her into the hands of Poison Ivy, ecoterrorist. But they _might_ release her for Pamela Isley, successful and _reformed_ business woman." Selina smiled at her. "If you can keep the Rydbergii open long enough, then _that's_ the image you present in court."

"Well – " Ivy thought about it. The club _was_ doing better. She hadn't broken the law in months. She was a legitimate business owner now, _and_ a concerned citizen who had been visiting Harley for months. "She's been getting worse for months, though. Why would she get better just because I want her to? Believe me, if I could do that, she would have been out of Arkham in a week!"

Selina bit her lip and thought.

"Well, people that aren't you and me would probably consider this amoral, disgusting, and wrong. But we're bad girls, right? You're saying that Harley believes that Joker is alive and pretending to be dead, correct?"

"I think so, yes."

"Exploit it. How much longer do you think Jocular Jack would stay in Arkham? And Harley always does what he tells her. If he needs that body out of the asylum so he can get on with business, she's got to get herself a clean bill of mental health. All you have to do is convince 'him' that he's had enough and it's time to get himself released. Harley was a psychiatrist, she can put on a better sane act than any of you."

Ivy blinked. That wasn't altogether crazy. Arkham had always had a revolving door, but ever since they'd implemented "fast-track rehabilitation", it seemed like they needed a reason to keep an inmate IN rather than needing compelling evidence before they would be released. It could work, it could—

Then Ivy froze. "Wait, no," she breathed. "Oh, nonononono, fuck me, no!"

Selina winced.

"Pammy, that sounds like another shoe dropping, and by now you really should be barefoot."

"It's Oswald," Ivy said, clutching at her hair. "I've been away from the Lounge too long! By now he's - "

Selina skewered her with a look.

"Ah, let me guess. He's been your drugged slave for months, but you've been so focused on Harley for the past day that you forgot to go back and tighten his noose?"

Even through her newest bolt of anxiety, Ivy felt her hackles rise. "Not like he's a friend of yours, Selina."

"No," Selina said coldly. "He's not a friend, that doesn't mean I'd wish him a fate that only _Gotham Post_ writers deserve. It's also another _puddle_ to clean up, step over, or work around. You do seem to have a lot of them."

"Yes, well, I'm glad you're happy for Oswald's liberation," Ivy said angrily. "_You're_ the one telling me I need to present a respectable front and get Harley out through legal means, and now I've lost the Lounge! What am I going to do, green someone new? Oh, I'm sure Brucie will be more than happy to—"

Ivy stopped as she realized the truly desperate idea flashing through her mind was also leaking out her mouth. Bruce Wayne! She was standing right in his house! In Gotham, it didn't get any more legitimate or respectable than Bruce Wayne. If only she hadn't spoken the name before she realized what she was saying. Because when Ivy looked at Selina, she saw knowledge—the reflection of her own thoughts looking back at her, and they were NOT met with "Come on, we're both bad girls" approval. They were met with an eloquent warning: _those who poke into the wildcat's lair and help themselves to the wildebeest she bagged are asking for pain._

Catwoman's reflexes were as quick as her namesake's, but not even the cheetah can outrun pheromones as they traveled up the nasal cavity into their brain. Instinctively, Ivy's body unleashed a full dose of pheromones to counter the violent ass-kicking telegraphed in Selina's eyes, and they stopped the thief in her tracks.

Hostility gave way to a friendly smile... and only then, once that short-term threat was sidestepped, did Ivy's mind catch up with what her body was doing. A crotch-kick of abject terror bent her body in two and she sunk weakly into the visitor's chair: This was _exactly_ what she had sworn never to do again. When Selina came out of it, she was going to _tear Ivy to pieces_. The punishing pain that was only a warning moments before was now a promise and a certainty.

But she didn't have a choice! She needed _someone_ with money, respectability, and power to help get Harley released into her care, and here she was in Bruce Wayne's inner sanctum. Harley didn't have any _time_. What else could she do?!

Once she had Wayne - and that snooty butler of his - under her control, she'd just have to handle them the way she'd handled Oswald. She'd drench them with pheromones now, then administer daily boosters until Harley was healed. Afterwards, well, Ivy would probably have to release them. The retribution would be terrible, Selina did not make idle threats (c.f. setting Scarecrow on fire), and Selina had made it very clear what would happen if Ivy so much as considered greening her again. But if that was the only way to save Harley, that was simply the price Ivy would have to pay.

"Selina," Ivy said, her voice trembling a little. "I'm sorry. I'm _really _sorry. ("And going to be sorrier" a needling voice in the back of her mind added.) But I need Bruce. I need him now. Could you get him for me?"

Selina looked at her for a moment without speaking. And then she smiled winningly. "Sure," she said. "What are friends for, right? Just give me a minute."

Ivy smiled back nervously as Selina left the room. She got up, paced, and then, since it seemed she was still waiting (How far did Selina have to go to find him and how big could this house be?), she sat down very carefully on the edge of Wayne's desk. She wondered what would happen to the Rydbergii. Probably the Penguin already had the staff tearing everything out by the roots. She would weep for the poor plants later. They'd still be alive if she hadn't been so thoughtless. But they could be regrown. There was just the one Harley . . .

"Ms. Isley?"

Ivy looked up at Bruce, who had just spoken and was standing in the doorway. There was something off about Selina standing next to him, something that she couldn't quite place, but that didn't matter. Before her nimrod boyfriend could give himself a headache wondering why Selina was acting differently, Ivy came towards them, hitting Bruce with enough musky jungle essence to put him in a daze for hours. "Selina convinced me that she knows a better way to get Harley out of Arkham," she said, "and for that I'll need..."

She trailed off. Something felt _very_ wrong about this. Why were red flags going off in her head? Yes, this hadn't been the plan when she got here, and yes, she regretted the desperate straits that had led her to this, but... But... But Bruce looked exactly the same, that was the problem! There was no glint of admiration in his eyes, no aura of infatuation, no eager-to-please expression that merely awaited her words to enlighten him on what he, as a low and unworthy toad, might do for her as his queen and goddess.

Through a haze of her own, Ivy dimly realized what was wrong with Selina, too. Though she saw the other woman only through her peripheral vision, she could see that that warm, accommodating smile was noticeably absent.

Both Bruce and Selina continued to regard her silently, and Ivy... reeled. She knew how a man in this state was supposed to behave—and how this _particular_ one behaved. She'd greened Bruce Wayne before, after all, most recently at the Grayson bachelor party. She knew he reacted the way all straight men react to her lure: with adoration and complete obedience. But now, his eyes were as clear as ever. Befuddled, yes, but he always looked that way. But they were _not_ dazed. They did not look adoring. And she couldn't help but feel they would not be especially obedient.

Ivy felt the temperature in the room grow five degrees colder... then ten degrees warmer... then fifteen degrees colder again. Her brain seemed to slow, her thoughts stiffening like particularly bitter molasses... Selina... wasn't greened... that meant pain... Bruce wasn't greened... that meant no one to protect her... from Selina... claws and pain... pain and claws... might lose an eye... Maybe a lung too...

"Selina?" she asked fearfully.

"Pamela," Selina stated flatly.

"I uh..." was the best she could come up with.

She looked at Bruce, as if hoping he might have a cup of words she could borrow.

He said nothing.

She looked at Selina with the same hope.

"I uh..." she tried again.

"Pamela, let's review Joker and Harvey's treatise on the phenomenon called the Really Bad Day. Because you're having one. What makes yours particularly interesting is that nobody else has brought any acid or chemicals. There's just you... and your CATASTROPHICALLY BAD IDEAS!"

Ivy squeaked and backed away, pulling the visitor's chair between her and Selina as if it represented an impenetrable barrier, and directing a second dose of pheromones at them both. It was enough to make every man in Haight-Ashbury her bosom buddy. But all Bruce did was blink a few times like there was too much pollen in the air for his taste, and Selina just wrinkled her nose. Then she started approaching with that gimlet look in her eyes, and once again, Ivy clutched the chair like it might offer some protection.

"Selina," Ivy said helplessly. "You have to know this wasn't the plan when I came here today. I didn't... I hadn't... I wouldn't... But you _heard_! Oswald is free by now, I need a replacement, and I thought maybe . . . "

"Thought maybe _what_?" Selina asked. "Thought _maybe_ you'd turn the two of us into your very own Fred and Ethel for a few months? Thought maybe attempting suicide YOURSELF would give you some insight into Harley's situation? Because let me tell you, Pammy, between her attempt and yours, THIS IS A HELL OF A LOT MORE LIKELY TO SUCCEED!"

"It was an impulse!" Ivy said, growing desperate. Joker would have appreciated this sick joke. Here she was trying to get Harley out of the hospital, and Selina was going to put her _into_ one. "Bruce has money and power and legitimacy and – well, all the things you said, and, um, he was handy!"

"So you decide you'll green me – something I already told you to _never do again_ – to get to Bruce, who you were also going to green _because he was convenient_?!" Selina asked as she got to the desk while Ivy's rear end bumped against the corner of the room. "The manor isn't a 7-Eleven, Pammy!"

"I didn't have time to find a new patsy!"

"Did you ever think of, I don't know, something as mind-bendingly rational as _asking_ for his help? Oh wait, I'm sorry, you tried that with Harvey, didn't you?" Selina snarled. She looked behind her. "Bruce, can you step outside for a minute? Also, tell Alfred I'm going to need some large sheets of plastic. I wouldn't want to stain the _walls_."

"Why are you mad at her again?" Bruce asked foppishly. "There was this weird smell, and then your friend here started screaming."

"She's not my friend," Selina corrected coolly. "My friends don't try to _drug_ me."

"Oh, is that what that smell was? Drugs? I wonder why I don't feel any different, because I always got quite a contact high at Club Deep and Limelight. I hope I haven't built up a tolerance."

Ivy had been too frightened to wonder about that herself, but now that Wayne mentioned it...

"He's right. Neither of you are affected," she pointed out. "And you _should_ have been."

Selina glared at Ivy.

"What kind of a death wish do you have, you psychotic harpy? Forget WHY, and worry about the consequences. You're not going to drown, Sundance, it's the fall that's gonna kill you."

"No, Selina, listen, I've greened you! I have! And I've greened him. But now, look! Nobody's green! I couldn't pull it off when you were _together. _ For some reason, I couldn't make you love _me_ when you were near _him _and vice..." Ivy paused. For a moment, the clinical side of her brain kept the fear away. "...Versa. How bizarre. I wonder if... But that's... No... and yet, it's really the only way to explain it. Selina, you actually fell in love with that doltish playboy, didn't you?"

Selina closed her eyes and took a deep breath, summoning patience.

"Okay first," she said finally, "That is the sort of confidence one might share with a friend. We are not friends, Pamela, and frankly, I'm getting a little tired of having to explain that to everybody. Nevertheless, in a probably futile attempt to help you extract your head from your ass, I will tell you that yes, I _actually did_. And further bulletin: he fell in love with me. The regular way. I didn't need to _fuck with his head_ – the merits of which you're _finally_ about to learn."

She wasn't in costume. She didn't have her whip or her claws. Theoretically Selina and Ivy were both completely unarmed. That didn't stop Ivy from believing that she was about to be flayed alive.

"Please, Selina, don't do this. Harley won't have anybody if I'm in a full body cast. It'll be up to _you_ to get her out."

That drew Selina up as she was coming around the desk. She froze Ivy in place with her eyes as she drummed her fingers on the wooden surface.

"No, no it wouldn't, Pammy. I can-and will-just leave her where she is. And you'll have wrecked any chance she had, because of this little stunt of yours."

Ivy gasped. "No!" she said, panicked. "You have to help! You have to! You can't punish her because of something I–"

"No, I don't HAVE to, Pammy. I don't HAVE to do anything for you. You don't get to lie in a hospital bed, blissfully unconscious while I do all the work. I'm not punishing her, Pammy. I'm punishing _you. _Because I'm not going to hurt you... Well, not much anyway."

Like a snake Selina shot forward. Ivy cried out as Selina grabbed her by an arm, twisted it behind Ivy's back, and then slammed her face first into the desk.

"You're not taking the easy way out, Pamela," Selina said coldly. "You are going back to the Iceberg, and you will _crawl_ towards Oswald. You will _beg_ for forgiveness, and if you want him to help you with a show of legitimacy, you better promise him anything he wants."

"Selina – "

"_Anything!_ I don't care if he wants you to dance on tables, become his new washroom attendant, or shred azaleas to freshen up his footbath. Pammy, I don't care if he wants you to dress up in a big penguin suit and wear a sandwich board in Times Square! You do whatever it takes to get Oswald to preserve the fiction that you're still in charge of the Lounge until Harley's out of Arkham."

Fresh tears spilled from Ivy's eyes as her cheek pressed painfully against the desk and her arm was twisted mercilessly. She hadn't believed her pride could be crushed any further, and she'd been completely wrong. "Selina –"she tried again.

"Say you'll do it, Ivy," Selina warned her. "Say you'll follow my instructions to the letter, and I might even drop by the Rydbergii a few times to help business pick up. Otherwise, I'd say you've let your only friend down for the last time."

That leveled Ivy. She was humbled completely. Selina's last words, coupled with the fact that Ivy was utterly at her mercy, showed her just how alone in the world she had become. No wonder she couldn't protect the plants. She couldn't even protect herself any more! "All right," Ivy choked out. "I'll, I'll do it. For Harley I'll do it."

The pressure finally eased a little on her arm. "Whatever it takes," Selina repeated. "For Harley, 'whatever it takes' is your new motto. Whatever it takes to bring in customers, whatever it takes to stay in the black, whatever it takes to _save your friend_, you're going to do it."

Ivy nodded as she was finally able to lift her head. "Yes," she said hopelessly.

Someone cleared his throat. Looking up, Ivy saw Bruce standing there. "I take it you won't be needing those plastic sheets any more?" he asked.

________________________________________

Ivy looked around with trepidation as she reentered her apartments above the Rydbergii. She didn't hear anything. But then, if Oswald was waiting in hiding with a loaded umbrella, she didn't think she _would_ hear anything.

Hopefully he'd talk first, shoot later.

It was vital for Ivy to maintain the veneer of legitimacy she'd acquired as the proprietress of the Rydbergii Lounge if she wanted to have Harley released into her care. That had been made perfectly clear to her at Wayne Manor. The only obstacle - and it was a big one - was the fact that by now Oswald was no longer under her control.

But even if Oswald was already reasserting himself as the true owner of the Lounge, surely he'd allow her to preserve the fiction that she was in charge if she asked him nicely. He'd done it for Jervis when his Aunt Gladys came to town. Why not her?

Well, there WAS the fact that she'd drugged him and turned him into her servant months ago.

Ivy grimaced. Selina had been very insistent. If she wanted to save Harley, then she needed the Lounge. And if that meant Ivy would have to offer Oswald _anything_ he asked for, she probably deserved it.

Ivy didn't like the word "anything". It implied, well, ANYTHING. And the Penguin was a lonely man who had privately held a torch for that strumpet Roxy when she was still in town. He'd already seen Ivy naked. What if "anything" meant, well, seeing _more_ of her body?

_Why the hell would he want YOUR fat ass?_

Ivy's stomach rolled like a ship on the high seas. That hadn't occurred to her until now. She wasn't sure what would be worse - the Penguin demanding her sexual favors, or _rejecting_ them. He hadn't merely seen her naked. He had seen her naked at her worst - poor complexion, bad hair, and extra pounds where they didn't belong. She had been too shocked by her appearance at the time to worry about what he'd seen. Now, however, her self-esteem was taking a fresh beating.

And it was only going to get worse when he laid eyes on her now.

"Oswald?" Ivy called out. Her voice cracked slightly, and she hated herself for it. "Um, look, I realize you may be upset with me, but I'm sure we can - "

"You're quite right I'm upset, my dear dewdrop," the Penguin said as he stormed out of the kitchen with his shirt sleeves rolled up, drying his hands on a dish towel. More importantly, there was a clarity in his eyes that she hadn't seen since the night the Joker died.

_My dear dewdrop?_ Sarcasm, all right, she probably - from his point of view - deserved that. "I'm sure," she said again, "that we can work something out."

"I'm sure we can too," he replied. "It's called a _cell phone_." He took one out of his pants pocket and waved it in the air. "You take it with you when you _leave_, and then if you're not going to come home after the Lounge closes, you _call_."

She stared at him. Eh?

"I wasted a perfectly good vegetable lasagna," Oswald complained. Then he peered closely at her. "You look different, Ivy. Your petals, how they droop. Where have you been?"

"Quiet," Ivy said, walking towards him. "Just be quiet for a moment." She pressed an index finger beneath his chin and raised his eyes to look into hers. She hadn't been mistaken when she came in earlier - there had always been a dazed quality to them. But now there wasn't. Confused now, yes. But not befogged. This was NOT a man under the influence of her pheromones.

"Are you mocking me?" she asked him. "Is this some kind of joke?"

He took an anxious step backwards. "I assure you, dearest, there's no jocularity here. Why would you think that? You returned home much later than usual. You've _never_ been gone longer than twenty-four hours."

Well, there had been a pretty good reason for _that_. Had been, anyway. If Oswald wasn't faking . . . _if_ he wasn't faking. If he was, he certainly wouldn't _tell_ her. This could be an attempt to lull her into some sense of false security, so that he could do something horrible to her later.

"And you hadn't called to say why," he had gone on to say. "I was deeply worried. Not enough to call the police, of course, but worried."

But if he _wasn't_ faking, then the only other possible answer that came to mind - was that prolonged daily exposure to her enhanced pheromones caused some kind of permanent mental modification.

"Ozzie," she said sweetly. "How long have you loved me?"

"Hrmph, what a question!" he said. "Since as long as I can remember, of course."

"And the night the Joker died, did you love me then?"

He paused. "I don't recall that. When was that again?"

"You know," she prodded, "when you and the Joker came to the Lounge with guns? The night the television crews were filming?"

The Penguin scratched his head, mystified. "Now why would I go to the Rydbergii with a gun? Especially with that clown primitive of crime!"

His _memory _had been modified. She'd have to question him further, but his memories seemed to have been either altered or selectively erased. Perhaps he'd worshipped her so long that he simply couldn't remember a time when he hadn't. Even though she'd greened him almost as soon as he and the Joker arrived at the Iceberg, he would still remember _going_ there with him. How could anybody forget that night? He'd been _right there_.

For a few moments, Ivy did some forgetting of her own. She forgot about the man in front of her. She forgot about her looks. She forgot about Selina, who would undoubtedly be disappointed when she found out Ivy wouldn't have to submit to a single indignity from the Penguin. She even forgot about breathing.

All she knew was the idea that had come crashing down on her head like a redwood being felled by a tornado.

If she could make the Penguin forget that night, then she could make _Harley_ forget.

She'd forget any and all involvement she'd had in the Joker's murder. She'd even forget she was there. She'd stop blaming herself. And maybe then, she'd _be_ herself again.

Ivy put a hand to her left cheek and realized that tears had sprung from her eyes.

"Ivy?" Oswald asked. "What's happened?"

"It's - it's Harley," she said thickly, shaking her head to clear it. "She's hurt. She's been hurt really badly." All at Ivy's hands. "But I'm going to make it _all _better. For both of us."

To be continued in Part Two . . .


	17. Chapter 17

Leland Bartholomew was somewhat surprised to see Pamela again. Twice in two days? That was certainly a record for her. But then, it wasn't every day that a friend attempted suicide.

"Pamela," he said, rising from behind his desk. "I assume you're here to see Harley again?"

"Yes," she replied. "Have you made any progress with her?"

"Unfortunately, no," Leland admitted. "She's still unresponsive. She just looks straight ahead and occasionally moves her lips. We're hoping that she's trying to communicate with us."

Interesting.

There was a look in Pamela's eye and her lips pressed together, as if she disagreed with his diagnosis but was trying not to say it out loud. Which was certainly possible. Ivy had made a habit, both as a patient and a visitor, out of disagreeing with doctors.

That habit, however, did not include keeping her opinions to herself, and that was what was interesting. By the second or third time Pamela had visited Harleen at Arkham, Leland had decided to see if he could cure _both_ women. Pamela had shown a degree of sympathy and caring for other human beings that was startling for her. It was possible that her visits helped Harleen. It was equally possible that her visits helped Pamela's mental state as well. Call it "behavioral modification through thinking about someone other than yourself".

He was more optimistic about Pamela than Harleen, to be honest. At least Harleen's cry for help suggested she wasn't lost yet, but Pamela continued to visit her. More importantly, she had not been forcibly confined to Arkham herself in months. It had to be a record for her. It had to mean _something _that Pamela had gotten better at interacting with Harleen's doctors, keeping her temper in check and playing by asylum regulations.

And this latest incident might just be the kick in the pants Pamela needed to make the next leap forward.

Leland smiled. "I'm sorry, I was thinking about Harleen's progress. Let me take you to her."

Pamela didn't say she could find her own way. She didn't storm off without him. She just nodded - maybe it was more a jerk than a nod - and allowed him to lead her there.

Yes, Pamela just might be coming around.

________________________________________

Poor, deluded fools. Harley was "trying to communicate" with them. Hah! She was communicating, all right - with the biggest fool of all, the one she'd created inside her own head!

Ivy sighed. Of course it was all up to her. Even if they'd believed her, the doctors would have just botched it up anyway. Idiots.

Whereas Ivy had a plan. At last, a fucking _plan_! She was finished assuming that Harley would get better on her own, because she wouldn't. She would get worse, and her doctors wouldn't be able to stop it. She was going to save Harley herself. And, in a dreadful bit of irony, Ivy was going to do it by _greening_ her.

Ivy had decided a long time ago that she was glad she'd never been able to green Harley. The little clown was her only true friend. That would have been corrupted by pheromones.

So naturally, her plan was to get Harley out of Arkham, bring her home, and then keep her in a pheromone-induced state for . . . well, that part she didn't know. Oswald had been greened for months. Surely it hadn't taken THAT long to turn him into her permanent worshipper, but she had no idea of when the turning point had been.

She'd just have to wing it. __For now Ivy had to worry about getting Harley out of Arkham. Which was never going to happen, no matter how outwardly respectable she was, if they thought she was a suicide risk.

But Harley wouldn't get _better_ inside Arkham, and she wouldn't get out until she was better. It was a total catch-22. Ivy, however, had a plan for that too. She'd be an inch away from retching the whole time, but she'd have to hold it down anyway.

When she was certain they were all alone, Ivy sat on the bed right by Harley's bandaged right wrist. Then Ivy leaned forward and hit her with a full blast of pheromones for fifteen long seconds. Her sheets were positively drenched with it by the time Ivy was finished. "Harley?" she asked gently. "It's Red. Come on, I need to talk to you."

Whatever Harley's mental state was, she couldn't resist the compulsion from the pheromones to refuse Ivy. "Heya," she said, sounding just as tired as she had the night before. "Is it morning? I think my daily shrink session is in - "

"Harley," Ivy said, willing herself to stay strong, "I need to speak to the Joker."

Harley stared at her. "Huh? But you never - "

"Harley," she said a third time, plowing straight ahead, "this is a special occasion. And I'm sure he'll want to talk to me." Her eyes hardened. "To gloat, at least."

"Red - _run along and play now, Harley!_"

Ivy's spine seemed to lock up on her. __The transition had been immediate and flawless. Almost as if a windshield wiper ran across her face, Harley's simple, sweet face was taken over by a malevolent, sneering presence. "Joker," Ivy hissed.

"Pammy," she - he? - replied. "Didn't feel like sharing with Dr. Bart?"

"They wouldn't have believed me," Ivy said. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

"Heh-heh, perhaps I did. But it's for the best, isn't it? Isn't this something just for the three of us? I know how close you and Harley are. It'll be our secret. Like we're in a club!"

"If I had a club right now, I'd - " Ivy tried to compose herself. This wasn't the real Joker, this was a figment of Harley's imagination, given life by her madness. But the likeness was so complete, it was too easy for Ivy to slip into the old hostility.

But then, that was supposed to be the idea, wasn't it? The Joker knew how much Ivy loathed him. "He" would be suspicious if she treated him with anything other than disgust.

There was one thing about this Joker, however, that Ivy suspected was different from the real one. Privately Ivy could admit that the Joker was extremely intelligent. She could also admit that however smart Harley was - and that seemed to change depending on how bubbly she was feeling that day - she _wasn't_ as smart as he was. Harley could duplicate the Joker's personality, but she couldn't duplicate his brilliance.

The Joker was usually too smart to manipulate. Ivy had to hope that a Harley-Joker wasn't.

"Fine," Ivy went on coldly. "We'll be the Joker-Isn't-Dead-But-Only-We-Know-That club."

He sniggered.

"Besides," she added, "I have my own reasons for playing along."

"Pammy, of course you do! You never do anything unless there's something in it for you. Expecting a little quid pro quo? Perhaps I could put a smile on your sunflowers!"

Ivy almost choked on that. Where had _that _remark come from? Did Harley believe that deep down?

"No," she said instead. "You've already given me what I wanted, Joker." She smiled cruelly. "Harley's safety."

The Joker's eyes narrowed. "And how do you see it like that?"

"Because you've gone to great lengths to make people think you're dead. Even now, nobody has figured it out. You must have something _really_ big planned. Something hysterical. Something that won't be as good unless you're 'resurrected' at just the perfect moment. Otherwise you wouldn't have gone to the trouble."

"And won't the look on their faces be a laugh!" the Joker chortled. "Brucie will be so relieved, too. He might even throw me a Welcome Back! dinner."

Nothing about the Joker had ever made sense when he was alive. But his obsession with Bruce Wayne had always stood out as being especially senseless. First Selina, then him. What was it about Wayne that turned all the Rogues into his _groupies_? "That's why I'm so happy, Joker," she said. "Because as long as you want everyone to think you're dead, you'll _have_ to leave Harley right where she is."

"P-shaw! I can't break her out, it's true, but Harley's done it herself plenty of times. Which only goes to show what incompetents they have on staff here!"

"Maybe, but you've done too good a job faking your death, Joker," Ivy said carefully. This had to be done just right. "Since you're dead, you've had Harley go through the grieving process. But she's laid it on too thick. You know how you've always said she messes up all of your plans."

"Hah!" the Joker said. "Tell me about it! Why I keep her around is a mystery to me, I tell ya! Why _you_ keep her around, well . . . you can understand why everyone thinks you're sleeping with her."

Ivy clenched a fist behind her back. Yes, she hadn't been entirely untruthful when she said Harley was accident-prone. Yes, Harley had made her life more difficult at times. But Harley was more than just an object of desire for her!

"As I was saying," she said through gritted teeth, "she's gone overboard with the grieving process. And you didn't make matters better when you cut her like that. Now her doctors think she's suicidal!" Ivy relaxed her jaw. "Now, if she's a woman with nothing left to live for, _why would she break out of Arkham_?"

The Joker opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then he looked to his right. "Harley," he sighed. "Always overacting."

_Her? _The Joker had been the biggest ham of them all!

"But Mistah J," Harley said, speaking in her own voice again as her face went from cruel to panicky, "you said to act like you were dead! I wouldn't have nuthin' to live for if you were!"

Ivy's heart withered. Nothing to live for? Without the Joker Harley had _nothing_? "What about your bestest pal?" she shrieked mentally.

"If I wanted them to think you were suicidal, I would have just killed you! Granted, then you'd be dead, but it'd be really believable!"

She wondered where exactly Harley believed the Joker _was_. Was he invisible? Hiding behind the walls perhaps? It didn't matter, though. As long as Harley _needed_ him to live, she could believe anything.

"Now I can't break you out without making people suspicious," the Joker went on, "and they'll never let you leave if - "

Ivy became very still. Harley wasn't as smart as the Joker, but she HAD to be smart enough for the Joker to figure it out for himself. And when he did . . .

The Joker smiled at Ivy, pleased with himself. "You know, Pammy, if we Rogues didn't enjoy gloating so much, we'd all have succeeded a long time ago."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Ivy lied.

"You were so pleased I'd outsmarted myself that you just _had_ to come and tell me," the Joker said. "You're about as predictable as a whoopee cushion! But now that you've brought it to my attention, there's a very easy way around the problem, _and_ I have enough time to do it. All Harley needs to do is get _better_."

"No," Ivy said. "They'll never believe - "

"Everybody falls for that sweet-little-girl routine of hers. If Harley starts 'moving on', her doctors will practically _fall_ over themselves to put her on fast-track rehabilitation! They'll let her walk right out the door on her own, and when that happens, I can finally set my plan in motion."

"No," Ivy repeated, standing up and taking a step back. "I won't let you do this. I'll stop you! I'll - "

"Pammy," the Joker said, shaking his head dolefully, "you could never save her from me before. What makes you think you'll do any better this time?"

Instead of saying anything else, Ivy turned on her heel and bolted out the infirmary, acting just like she had the last time she'd talked to "him". She didn't hear any laughter behind her, but she didn't expect to. No one could know he was "alive".

But that was all right. It was a crazy plan, appealing to Harley's madness, getting her to pretend to be _sane _so Ivy could get her out of Arkham and cure her for real. But it might actually work now!

Now all she had to do was keep a much closer watch on Harley's progress while keeping the Rydbergii in business long enough until Harley was released. Selina had promised to help with that, but Ivy had an idea or two that proved just how desperate she was.

Still, she began walking out of Arkham at a normal pace than she had the last time she was there.. The "Joker" might not be able to laugh now, but once she got outside, she'd laugh _more_ than enough for the both of them.

________________________________________

Ivy narrowed her eyes, then looked up and glared at Clayface.

It didn't faze him, like nothing she'd ever done fazed him since he first started coming there. "Sorry, I can't help you with this."

She looked back down. Then she started counting her fingers. "Tequila, rum, gin, vodka . . . "

"It's not a Long Island Iced Tea until you add something else, Pammy," he said.

Ivy sighed, then turned away from him.

"Are your eyes closed?"

"Yes," she said through gritted teeth. Then she reached her right arm out, nearly knocking over a bottle of Kamchatka. Ivy hesitated, took two steps to her right, grabbed one of the bottles in front of her, and opened her eyes. "And triple sec," she added.

"Very good, except that's a bottle of Jim Beam in your hand," Clayface said.

Ivy looked at it. "Shit," she muttered.

"You're getting better, Pammy," he said. "You want to be a bartender in Gotham, you need to know how to make any drink without cue cards, and you need to know where every brand of liquor is located behind you before you even turn around."

"I do not wish to be a bartender," she grumbled. "But cash is still tight, and I can't afford to hire another one. I was barely able to mail my annual contribution to the ELF."

He didn't point out that she also had to tend bar as long as her clientele came in to watch her serve. Then he paid attention to what she'd said. "The Earth Liberation Front?" Clayface asked dubiously. "Those yahoos who blow up SUVs and mansions?"

She nodded as she put back the bourbon and selected a DeKuyper & Son brand of triple sec. "They think too small and they're too conservative, the poor dears, but at least they mean well."

"Uh-huh," he said. She was probably their patron saint.

"It's all the fault of that bitch Jenna that I have to learn this," Ivy went on, her mood turning even darker. "Stupid trumped-up groupie."

"Well, one could consider it a useful skill even if you don't work as . . . what did you just say?"

"What?" Ivy asked. "It's all Jenna's fault?"

Life was so much easier when she could blame someone else for everything, he thought. "The part about her being a groupie."

"Oh," Ivy said indifferently. "She used to be a groupie. A wannabe, actually. She tried to _audition_ to be my sidekick, if you can believe it."

One side effect of Clayface's mutation was that certain figurative phrases such as "jaw-dropping" became all too literal for him. At the moment, he could feel his eyes involuntarily becoming "wide as saucers". "She used to be a _groupie?!_"

"Mm-hm. Honeysuckle. Like I'd let a henchwench pick her own name. Anyway, she was stupid and irritating, and I wasn't interested. Besides, I was holding the spot open for Harley once she . . ."

"Got her head on straight and left the Joker?" Clayface asked rhetorically.

Ivy nodded but said nothing more.

Real shame what happened to Harley, he thought, but he didn't say that. He'd brought Harley up a few minutes after he'd arrived, and Ivy was adamant that she didn't want to talk about it. So instead, he focused on the issue at hand. "I don't suppose you've told anybody this?"

"No," Ivy said. "I do not enjoy speaking of her."

He put a hand over his face.

"What?"

"Pammy, I'm sure you're aware that groupies and women like 'Honeysuckle' are good for a roll in the hay and not much else." It occurred to him that he had just implied that Pammy had _firsthand_ knowledge of that fact, but considering the rumors about her and Quinn - hell, there had to be one or two lesbian groupies, didn't there? "So it never occurred to you that if the Rogues found out one of THEM was running Jenna's, they would be less likely to go there?"

Ivy blinked. "Well, um - "

"A few words to Jervis, and the whole underworld will know she was one of THEM in a day. Hell, they'll think the club is her way of trying to become part of our little society again!" Clayface shook his head. Long-range planning was not typically a Rogue's strong suit.

"Hm," Ivy said. Then she smiled. "Well, I believe that can be arranged. Oh yes, that will prune her branches quite nicely."

He chuckled. "Until that happens, though, you're stuck behind that bar. __But at this rate, it won't be long before you're ready to handle the difficult part of bartending."

Ivy's eyes widened slightly. "More difficult than this?"

"Well, technically, no, it should be the easier part. But you're you, so it'll be harder."

She crossed her arms. "I don't think I like your tone of voice, Hagen."

"See, this is what I'm talking about. Has anyone ever told you that your interpersonal skills stink?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Jesus Christ, Pam, it's not rocket science for most people besides you. Whenever you get it into your head that you have something to say and you need a better audience than the shrubbery clinging to your booth, you don't talk to people, you talk AT them. You always pick the topic of conversation, you hog all the oxygen, and then you let up just long enough to let the other guy agree with you!"

"As much as I tolerate you for coming in during closing hours to assist me with the alcohol," she said angrily, "and as much as I need to get better at this as soon as possible, the last thing I need is your insults."

Clayface sighed. "I'm just trying to warn you. You can't pull that shit with your customers. The theory isn't that tricky. It's all about the execution with you. Wait for them to talk, pay attention to what they say, pretend you care, and then tell them what you think they want to hear! You might want to try that in other social situations too, Pammy."

She didn't answer him that time. She just stared at him for a few moments, and then left the bar without another word. She disappeared up the stairs and into her office.

He shook his head. He should have mentioned that too - don't storm out of the bar whenever the customer says something you don't like.

_________________________________

Ivy leaned against the office door behind her. She didn't bother turning on the light. She just stood there and breathed heavily. Why had she reacted that way to his last remark? All right, yes, she didn't appreciate his tone of voice, but it wasn't until -

_Listen, pay attention to what he has to say, Pamela. If he's shy, ask him what he likes, draw him into a conversation . . ._

She gasped and put a hand over her mouth. That was it.

He'd sounded uncomfortably like her mother.

Pamela Isley had not thought about her parents in years. They were dead of course, had been dead for years, and they hadn't been on speaking terms prior to that either. Bertram and Rose Isley hadn't exactly supported her crusade.

When had her mother spoken such words to her? It would have to have been - the prom?

Ivy grimaced like she'd drank something foul. She went over to her desk and sat down, leaving the lights off. She hadn't thought of her parents in years because she hadn't thought of that life in years. That life was the life of a different girl, and that girl wasn't someone she remembered fondly. That girl interfered with a public image she'd carefully cultivated over time, not to mention how she saw herself. Goddesses weren't like that.

Pamela's childhood had not been an unpleasant or abusive or impoverished one. Her parents had loved her in their way, and had raised her in the middle-class lifestyle they had not aspired beyond. Her mother had a greenhouse in the backyard, and she had taught Pamela to care for plants, to treat them gently, and to cut them off when they tried to grow unchecked.

But she was embarrassed to admit that Pamela Isley was not the teenager whose lead the other girls followed. She wasn't the one who had the boys wrapped around her finger. Those had been other kids, the popular ones. Pamela wasn't popular growing up. She would never have been mistaken for a cheerleader. She was the only girl in the Science Club.

It was only natural that she had gravitated toward plants more and more as she got older - two hours in the greenhouse after school, four or more Saturdays and Sundays. They were clearly superior companions to the boys and girls her age. They responded predictably to the right stimuli, they rewarded your efforts by opening themselves up to you, and they didn't give a shit if you weren't the bubbly blonde with the perky breasts.

Ivy chuckled mirthlessly. She wondered if Harley had been a cheerleader. She bet she had been. Fuck, she was the Joker's sidekick, it was part of her job description!

At any rate, plants were nothing like humans. She had _tried_ communicating with the kids around her. But she would talk about the things that mattered to her, and they would look at her without comprehension. Why didn't they _get_ how incredibly fascinating plants were? Then she got frustrated, they made offensive remarks, and she stormed off. So even before _that day_, Pamela was already learning which was the superior species.

_That day_ was a day during summer vacation between her sophomore and junior years. She had been alone in the greenhouse, ministering to the _schizanthus pinnatus _she'd painstakingly nursed back to health. As she was about to move on to some _rudbeckia hirtas_, however, something had arrested her motion. Pamela had looked down and seen that her fingers had somehow become entangled in the leaves of the butterfly flowers. She'd gently tried to free her hand for a few seconds before she realized . . . her hand wasn't stuck in the leaves. The leaves were _clutching_ her hand.

Then Pamela had raised her eyes and discovered that every single blossom on the plant was directly facing her, as if they were _staring_ at her.

And lastly she found that every other flower in the greenhouse was doing the exact same thing.

Her breath had caught in her throat for a few moments before, feeling almost absurd, she had lightly shaken the leaves holding onto her fingers. "You're welcome," she'd said quietly.

She'd talked to her plants for a long time. This was the first time they had ever - well, if they hadn't exactly talked back, Pamela had felt something like a ripple of satisfaction pass from the _schizanthus _to her. Then the flowers let go of her and resumed their original positions.

Almost anyone else, Pamela had reflected later, would have either shrieked and fled, or stomped the "devil" plants flat. "Anyone else" probably included her parents too. But Pamela had experienced something akin to religious ecstasy. She could communicate with plants - no, she had _earned_ the privilege of having plants communicate _back_. Everyone, including her doctors at Arkham, persisted in the belief that Ivy had obtained her powers after that little incident years ago. They couldn't understand that she'd been born with it.

From that point on, she had withdrawn further from the humans who didn't understand her and toward the plants that did. She gave them her love every day, telling them about everything going on in her life, and they loved her unconditionally in return. It was only natural that, by her senior year, she had not one "human" friend, but dozens of infinitely more precious "plant" friends.

By that time, however, her body had undergone other changes as well. Most importantly, her breasts had grown to the point that even the musclebound jocks would have seen if Pamela had had little interest in fashion trends or cosmetics. Even as her figure filled out in all the right ways, Pamela had escaped notice in her shapeless sweaters and loose-fitting pants. While the boys watched cheerleader practice after school, no one paid attention to the hips of a future goddess when she was spending her time working on botanical projects in the chemistry lab in her white coat and goggles.

Regardless of that, the fact remained that there were no popular members in science club. But they were certainly smart enough to realize there was a real, live girl in their midst, and as senior prom rolled around, one of the boys had asked her. Pamela had been quite surprised; she'd _forgotten_ about the prom, as an irrelevancy that obviously no one would be asking her to. But she'd said yes, and not just because she was shocked there was anyone left at school who wanted to spend time with her.

For one thing, the club member in question had been in a car accident over summer vacation. He'd shown up in the fall with crutches and his jaw wired shut. Unsurprisingly, his social standing had slipped from "outcast" to "leper". But Pamela had appreciated his company. His inability to speak coherently let her talk about things to her heart's content.

More importantly, her parents had gone from curious to concerned to worried over the course of senior year. They didn't understand why their beautiful daughter never spent any time with other students. They didn't know why she was in the greenhouse all the time. And Pamela certainly couldn't tell them. She had started getting the intuition that they were going to limit her time with her plants. The prom date gave her the chance to nip _that_ in the bud.

Her mother had been thrilled. Here was her only daughter, finally going out on a _date_! It made her go a little overboard with the planning. Pamela had submitted to it all - the dresses, the hair, the makeup, the shoes - for the sake of the plants. That was _all_ it had meant to her until the night of the prom when Pamela had looked in the mirror. Just because Pamela had never cared about her looks, she still knew what "beautiful" looked like. That night, "beautiful" looked like her.

Of course, she'd nearly lost her temper when she realized she'd have to wear a dead flower on her wrist all night, but that had been the only hiccough of the evening. As soon as her date arrived at the house, his ability to speak had regressed to the day after the car accident. And once they'd arrived at the high school gymnasium, Pamela became the sunflower, and every boy there the bee. At first no one had even known who the gorgeous redhead with the incredible body _was_. Some even thought her date had hired an _escort_. That element of mystery had only enhanced their interest. She'd basked in the boys' adoration that night, and in the knowledge that all the girls were enviously talking about her. It wasn't the same as the love she felt come from her plants, but it was similar, _powerful_ somehow. Pamela was the center of attention that night - and she resolved to chase that feeling in the future.

Before the adulation, before even the arrival at the house of her nonentity date, though, her mother had taken her aside for some last-minute advice. "Listen, pay attention to what he has to say, Pamela. If he's shy, ask him what he likes, draw him into a conversation. He'll be more likely to be interested in what you like that way," she'd said.

Pamela had nodded at the right times, but by the end of the night she had forgotten the advice. Why bother? All she had to do that night was lean forward a little and any useless nearby boy would do whatever she wanted. _That_ lesson had been the really important one, and it had worked for her all throughout college too. There she had twisted one date after another around her finger. She wasn't attracted to any of them, and these were the _handsome_ ones, but having an unending series of personal servants had been nice. And she was _definitely_ attracted to the power.

And of course, once she'd acquired her pheromones, the lesson had been doubly correct.

Hagen, however, seemed immune. Well, of course, he didn't have hormones, much less a puny third leg to do the thinking for him. But then everyone seemed immune these days. Wayne was so sickeningly in love with Selina that he didn't even _know_ she was trying to green him! And she just couldn't seem to use her beauty to get what she wanted any more. It was so frustrating - but then, now that Ivy had taken a good look in the mirror, it was painfully apparent why. Her looks simply weren't what they used to be.

Without her beauty, what did Ivy have left?

_You reap what you sow, Pammy._

Her insides clenched.

_You don't talk to people, you talk AT them._

She didn't want to believe those worthless men had been right.

_Listen, pay attention to what he has to say, Pamela._

But she could believe that her mother had been right. That she'd spent her entire adult life doing it the wrong way - and now she was reaping the consequences.

So she'd just try a little harder at having actual conversations with people. How difficult could it be?

Ivy put her face in her hands. Selina had promised her how hard it would be for her to save Harley. But she hadn't understood how hard until just now.

To be continued . . .


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

_Well_, Clayface thought. _That was certainly interesting._

A little while ago, the murmur of conversation behind him at the Rydbergii had come to a sudden halt. In his experience, that meant the Batman or one of his flunkies had stormed in. He had turned away from the bar to see if their target was him or someone else, only to stare as _Catwoman_ sauntered into the Lounge.

"Selina!" Ivy had said cheerfully as she briskly crossed the floor to greet her. She had appeared so swiftly, she had to have known Catwoman was coming. "So glad you could make it."

"Well, I wouldn't mind a martini right about now," Selina had replied smoothly, "and that Jenna's place – I don't know, there's just something wrong with that place. It's a bit tacky, actually."

Clayface couldn't disagree with that statement, but he was focused more on the fact that Selina was _here_. It had occurred to him that, once word of her presence hit the Gotham grapevine, the Rydbergii Lounge would probably see an increase in business that would dwarf the boost his visits had lent the club.

This had led to the realization that Ivy could interpret this as meaning that she no longer needed _him_ any longer. They'd reached a mutually beneficial arrangement months ago. She probably had gotten more out of the deal than he had. And yet Clayface had always known that on some level, Ivy had harbored a grudge against him for failing to help her solely because she _wanted_ him to. Now that Ivy had a new BFF, she might go back to having him blackballed. And thanks in part to HIM, Ivy would have more power over his role in the Gotham underworld than ever.

And then it had gotten _really_ interesting.

Ivy and Selina had exchanged a few pleasantries before Raven showed their VIP to the best table in the Lounge. Selina sat down, and Ivy – walked away, went up the back stairs, entered her office, and closed the door.

Okay, so maybe they weren't BFFs yet. In fact, Ivy's smile had looked a little forced to him when Selina came in. Maybe, he thought, because Selina was the white knight here, and Ivy was the damsel in distress. The Rydbergii Lounge might finally find itself in the black because of _Catwoman_, not Poison Ivy. That was a hairball that Ivy's pride would never be able to cough up.

That still left the question of why Selina was doing this for her, though.

He recalled the report in Variety that Paris Hilton was receiving appearance fees exceeding ten thousand dollars a night to hang out in various Hollywood nightclubs. He never made that much back in the day. Fuck, Travolta made more than him, and Hagen had it on good authority years ago that _he_ never made that much either. If inflation had gotten so bad that a talentless bimbo who made Veronica Vreeland look like Meryl Streep and Marie Curie rolled into one could make five figures for parking her bony ass on a bar stool somewhere, what kind of price had Selina demanded from Ivy? Her _soul_? (Selina would be getting the worst of THAT deal.)

The curiosity was getting to him, and since there was no telling how Ivy might try to jerk him around after tonight, he might as well ask Selina.

Clayface stood up from the bar. Typically he came in, sat down, "drank" alcohol, watched the few attractive women in view, and then left at closing time. He didn't interact with the thugs. They didn't interest him, and frankly that wasn't his job anyway. His job was to be there, like a big brown sign saying, "SAFE TO SWIM HERE".

But Catwoman was worth watching from close up.

"You shouldn't be here," he told her as he approached her table. "People will start to think this place has a little class."

"Hagen," Selina said pleasantly. "I'd heard you were coming here."

"May I?" he asked, gesturing to the booth across from her.

"I'm not expecting anyone tonight."

"What? You don't think Ivy will be rejoining you any time soon?" he asked dryly.

"Probably not," she replied with a small smile.

"Probably not," Clayface agreed. "It's been a while, Selina. Not since . . . " He trailed off awkwardly.

She raised an eyebrow. "I wasn't going to mention it, you know," she said, obviously referring to the Christmas party where he had purchased Ivy potpourri. "Considering whose nightclub this is now. Although, now that I think about it, we didn't talk very much before that night either."

"Eh," he said. "It took me a while to realize you have a better class of people here than I was used to."

"I'm sorry, _better_?"

"I don't know how much you saw when you were on stage, but there are a dozen producers in Hollywood who make the Joker look like Mother Teresa." He paused, then grinned self-deprecatingly. "Well, maybe that's a bit of an exaggeration – but not by much."

But then he rubbed the back of his neck, embarrassed. "Plus," he admitted, "for a while I had a problem being near beautiful women. I didn't exactly put up Wilt Chamberlain numbers back in the day, but there's a reason I never got married. And then, well, suddenly that wasn't an option for me any more. I didn't like being reminded of it."

"How did you get past it?"

"There are a lot of things I can't do any more. What was I going to do, start avoiding food too? So I got over it. Besides, just because I can't _do_ it with them, it doesn't mean I can't enjoy _looking_ at them. Seeing a woman with nice tits and ass – no offense – is about as close to physical pleasure as I get."

Selina chuckled and leaned forward over the table a little.

_Definitely not offended_.

"Of course," he added, "Pammy is the exception that proves the rule. She opens her mouth, I lose my hard-on even if I'm human."

"And yet you've been coming here almost every night," Selina pointed out.

"I'm getting plenty out of it, don't worry," Clayface said coolly.

"I bet. You must get a little thrill every time you walk through the door and she can't make you leave."

He hesitated. "At first," he said. "After a while . . . it's like, you know when a dog falls through a frozen pond, and he can't climb back out, and so he just keeps treading water until he drowns or somebody pulls him out?"

Selina looked at him. "I'm not a big fan of _dog_ metaphors, woof, but it sounds like you're saying you pity her."

"Well, I don't _show_ it. She'd probably put my name on her list."

"Her list?"

"Every guy who started coming in here so they could see Ivy forced to serve me drinks? Then kept coming back so Ivy could serve them too? Their name went on a list," he explained. "If this place hits its stride and she doesn't need them any more, then that list is going to be a bad thing to be on."

Selina sighed. "Gee, when you put it like that, how can you not root for her?" she asked sarcastically.

"You may say that, but you're here now. So clearly you're on her side to some degree. And I don't know if you've been paying attention, but ever since the stage show and you shacking up with Wayne, you've become pretty influential. During my 'sabbatical', I had twenty-plus different villains in other cities asking if I knew you. I hope Ivy is paying you for this kind of publicity."

"She's not _giving_ me anything, actually," Selina said smugly.

"So what is it?" Clayface asked, bursting to know. "How in the name of Spielberg did Ivy get you to come in? Fuck's sake, I can't believe she even swallowed her pride and asked you! No offense, Selina, but there could not _possibly_ be another person living in Gotham who she resents more than you. And now she wants you to save her?" He shook his head. "And here I always thought she was predictable."

Selina gave him a naughty smile as he casually checked out her left leg. Damn, there were about nine different reasons he didn't get erections any more, and they almost didn't seem to matter. "I think it's good that Pammy receives a little humiliation now and then. It's a reminder that she's not _actually_ a goddess."

"True," he agreed, "but like I was saying, you have to be getting _something_ out of this. I mean, I can see wanting to help her if it means rubbing her nose in the fact that she needs it. But her sense of entitlement is only going to get worse if she uses you to increase business without giving up something in exchange."

"Hagen, believe me – her sense of entitlement has already taken enough of a beating this week. Besides, maybe I don't like Jenna's."

"Oh God," he said. "Jenna's. When everyone hears that you were _here_ and not _there_, that overpriced glamor trap is going to empty out like it's last call." Clayface chuckled. "She had to open her own club to get what she wanted."

"Who?" Selina asked.

"Jenna – oh right, you wouldn't know. Ivy probably hasn't had an opportunity to let it hit the grapevine. Jenna used to be a groupie."

Selina stared at him. "No."

"Yeah! That's probably why she opened the club in the first place, to turn the tables on all the Rogues who never paid attention to her so that they have to come to HER for a drink. Plus Pammy says she tried out to be a sidekick named Honeysuckle years ago. Apparently she didn't appreciate it when Ivy said no." Clayface smiled at her. "As revenge schemes go, it's not all that bad."

"Jenna was a Poison Ivy groupie," Selina said flatly.

He nodded, his grin growing even wider.

"Christ. That takes a special kind of delusional nutjob."

"Actually, that's probably why Pammy never tried to use that information against her. From her point of view, women should be beating down her _door_ to become her followers," he reasoned. "She knows Jenna is nuts, but she's the only person who doesn't realize she's _really_ nuts."

Selina tapped a claw on the table in front of her. The look she gave him suggested she was weighing whether or not to say something to him. He could understand. He'd been out of town for years, and even before that, they didn't spend much time together. But he also had the inside track on Ivy and the Rydbergii, and lips tended to loosen among Rogues when they had or needed information. (Which probably explained a lot about Jervis.) "Harvey's mentioned her a time or two," she finally said.

"Really?" he asked casually. "How is Two-Face these days?"

"Not bad," she said. "But apparently Jenna has been _flirting_ with him."

Clayface blinked. Then he chuckled. "Nothing against Harv, but I'm guessing that has less to do with his looks or personality, and more to do with – "

"His being Ivy's ex," Selina finished.

"Wow," he said. "I knew she was a seriously fucked-in-the-head former groupie, but I didn't know she was hitting on Dent just on the off chance that Ivy might _hear_ about it."

Selina raised her martini to her lips but didn't drink. "Don't tell Pammy this," she said grimly, "but at this point, I'd shut Jenna's down for nothing."

Clayface didn't shiver, but he could fake one, and he did it then. And Pammy thought _she_ was the woman no man could resist?

* * *

Raven stood at her podium nervously as she waited for Catwoman to leave. Yes, it was great that she came, but it might not matter in the end if she didn't come _back_. In fact, that might even be worse than if Selina had never shown up at all. That would pulverize any morale left in the joint.

And there was no telling how Selina would react to Ivy practically fleeing the room after she was seated. Most people would have been insulted, but then again, most people who knew Ivy might have been relieved.

Clayface had brought in just enough customers that the waitstaff stopped grumbling out loud about their tips. Selina, though, could have an effect well beyond that.

As long as she came back, though.

"Did you have a nice evening, Ms. Kyle?" Raven asked brightly as Catwoman approached the doors. She hoped she hadn't sounded _too_ eager.

"Um. It was a very enlightening night, at least," Selina said.

"Can we expect you back sometime soon?" Okay, _that_ had sounded way too eager.

Selina spared her a smile. "I'd say you can count on it," she said with an almost savage tone.

Raven sagged with relief. For the first time, she could believe that the Rydbergii might last for years. "Well then," she said without thinking, "assuming we're still open, we'll see you soon."

"Why wouldn't you be open?"

Raven froze. She shouldn't have said that. Ever since Jenna had sent those black roses, Raven had worried and fretted constantly about what their competitor would try next. Whatever Jenna's goal had been, she was sure to turn the heat up sooner or later. And Raven might not be able to keep Ivy from finding out the next time.

"No reason," Raven said quickly. "You know how unpredictable Ivy can be."

"You say that like she could launch a new crime spree at any moment."

Raven laughed weakly. "I wouldn't say a _spree_."

Selina just looked at her, waiting for her to say more. Raven suddenly felt like her namesake, unable to look away from the hungry cat in front of her.

She suddenly felt a compulsion to tell Selina everything. At least then someone else would know. And damn it, she was just a hostess! She wasn't supposed to deal with information like this!

Looking up at Ivy's closed door, Raven leaned forward. "The day after Harley – you know, hurt herself?"

Selina gestured impatiently.

"Right, um, that day we got a special delivery while Ivy was out. Jenna sent her a bouquet of black roses with a _condolence_ card," Raven said. There. Finally. Someone knew. (Gina certainly didn't count.)

The thief looked startled by this confession. "Jenna sent Poison Ivy – _the_ Poison Ivy – dead flowers suitable for a funeral? The day Harley almost _died_? What the hell did Ivy do when she found out?"

"She didn't," Raven said. "I had them destroyed before she got back. Jenna's lucky I did. Ivy would have killed her in an instant if she had seen them."

"No, Ivy's lucky you did," Selina said quietly. "Jenna was trying to push all her buttons at once. Ivy would have headed straight for the club, where she would have assaulted Jenna in front of plenty of witnesses. She'd be back in Arkham within the day."

"And the Lounge would have shut down!" Raven realized. She could never figure out how Jenna could be so stupid. Finally it made sense. All right, Jenna was still stupid for flipping Ivy's homicidal switch and pointing her in her own direction, but at least it made _some_ sense. Sort of. If you were out of your fricking mind.

Selina sighed. "Well, tonight just keeps getting better and better."

"Why?"

"It's one thing to find new reasons to dislike Jenna. But now I'm starting to feel sorry for Ivy again. And _that_ is usually your first mistake."

Ivy had spent six months looking more pathetic than anything else. Boy, could Raven see where Selina was coming from.

* * *

Jenna rooted around fruitlessly in her purse for her car keys. Damn it, she must have left them in her office. She'd have to go back inside. She'd be what her club was running out of – a repeat visitor.

Damn Selina Kyle! The snarl on her face would have turned milk. The cat burglar had visited the Rydbergii Lounge little more than twenty-four hours ago, and already it seemed like everyone in Gotham had heard about it. Catwoman had studiously avoided both nightclubs for months, so for her to make an appearance now? It suggested that she had weighed her two options – and chosen the fucking _stupid_ one!

The original pitch to her investors had been partly predicated on the comparison between Catwoman and Poison Ivy. One was a pin-up goddess, a Broadway actress, Bruce Wayne's steady eye candy, and generally speaking a symbol of glamour and desirability across the city. The other dressed like a whore, killed people, irritated people even more, and generally speaking was a symbol of every woman on PMS. It was like comparing Grace Kelly to Pamela Anderson. Jenna's was to be the kind of club a Catwoman would frequent. Ivy would turn the Iceberg Lounge into a dive with a stripper pole before it crashed and burned.

Therefore, when Selina Kyle was seen at the Rydbergii Lounge for over an hour, naturally Jenna had fielded calls from each and every one of her investors. Some were nervous. Some were angry. And all were blaming it on her.

Jenna had been relying on the idea that all of the club's current problems would go way once the Rydbergii closed and left the field to her. She just needed to ride it out long enough. Kyle, however, couldn't have destroyed her timetable more effectively if the thief shredded it between her claws herself.

Her time was running out. As far as she could see, Jenna only had two options. One was to sever this new alliance between the burglar – who, she could see now, was clearly whoring herself to the nimrod playboy – and the psychopath. She would need to lure Kyle back over to her side sooner or later, but first Jenna would have to create some kind of incident that would have the two women lunging for each other's throats.

Unfortunately, she didn't know how yet. She had a vague idea of visiting the local animal shelter – a dead cat would antagonize the one woman almost as much as a dead rose would the other. And a half-dozen dead cats, maybe poisoned dead cats – eh, it was still just something on the drawing board.

The other option, however, was closer to becoming reality. Jenna had already tried once to have Ivy recommitted to Arkham. For some reason, however, her sympathy bouquet had failed to turn Ivy into a straitjacketed lunatic in the back of a police van. So Jenna would just have to escalate things.

And she already knew who would help her. She'd been leading Harvey Two-Face on almost from the first minute he walked into Jenna's. He had a face like the surface of the planet Mercury, true, but he was also the only man Ivy ever had a serious relationship with. The idea of seducing that man, and the thought of seeing Ivy's face when she found out about it, was a turn-on that overcame all else. She knew that Harvey was at least halfway (ha) into her because of the red hair and the body, but Jenna didn't care. This wasn't romance, this was _war_.

She was sure she could maneuver Ivy into a situation where the harpy would catch Jenna and Harvey in a compromising position. And when Ivy realized Jenna had taken everything that ever mattered to her – well, all that would remain was the pressing of the charges.

Jenna smiled, having forgotten about the keys. When Ivy was forced to admit Jenna was better than her . . .

"Jenna Leibowitz."

Jenna shrieked, dropped her purse and spun around. Over six feet of solid menace, crowned by two narrowed eyes, loomed over her. "Jesus Christ!" she snapped. "Don't do that to people!"

Batman didn't respond to that.

"Anyway, why are you here?" Jenna asked sullenly. "Shouldn't you be bothering criminals? Isn't that your job? Your hobby? Whatever? Just leave the law-abiding citizens alone."

"Law-abiding citizen?" Batman asked. "That wasn't always your goal in life."

"Excuse me?"

Batman leaned down toward her. Instinctively she stepped back.

"Honeysuckle."

Jenna gasped. "How did you – " She stopped. Then she sneered at him – well, maybe not at Batman, but in his general direction. "Oh, of course," she said. "Only Ivy knew that. She went crying to you like a baby because my club is doing better than hers, and you fell for it!"

"Poison Ivy is an egomaniac," Batman said. "She wouldn't come to me for help if wolves were gnawing at her leg. I have my own sources. Sources that tell me you're a failed Rogue sidekick – "

"That was years ago."

"A Poison Ivy groupie – "

"_Former_ groupie! That stupid bitch ruined my life!"

"And someone who sends dead flowers in a funeral arrangement to a known homicidal ecoterrorist on the day her best friend almost died."

"And Ivy didn't tell you any of this," Jenna said sarcastically. "You just know. Because you're _Batman_. What did Selina Kyle call you? 'World's Greatest Detective'? I should have known at the time what a _fool_ Catwoman is, but I didn't have it figured out until she joined forces with Ivy last night."

The day's venom was starting to practically spew out of her. "Maybe if you were a real detective, you'd be more worried about two of the three most deviant women in Gotham forming an alliance, and less about poor little me. _I'm_ the victim here, and those two – well, it doesn't take a detective to know Ivy prefers women. I think Wayne's fantasies are coming true as . . . we . . . "

It was at that point that Jenna's throat closed up on her. How had it gotten so cold? Where had all the light pollution gone? How could an ordinary man completely fill her vision the way Batman was, like some eternally hungry void come to swallow her up?

"It doesn't take a detective," Batman said harshly, sending ice through her spinal column, "to see that you're a bitter, vindictive woman. You've shaped your whole life around getting revenge on Poison Ivy, while all the people who were Ivy's _real_ victims have moved on with their lives. You'll do whatever it takes to bring Ivy down, even if it means replacing her, even if it means provoking a confrontation with her that could get innocent people hurt."

"_Real victims_?"

Batman raised a finger, and she cringed back again. "If Poison Ivy commits any kind of rash act in the near future that gets people hurt or killed, I'll know you're responsible. I'll see to it that you're charged with reckless endangerment, that your liquor license is revoked, and that you end up in the same place as the Rogues you're trying so desperately to emulate."

"I won't be blamed for the acts of a sociopathic lowlife!" she whined.

"Even if they're yours?"

Jenna bent over, grabbed her purse, opened it to retrieve her cell phone, and then straightened. "If you continue to threaten me, I'll call my attorney, and – "

Oh, of course. She took her eyes off of him for a second. And now he was gone.

First Ivy, then Catwoman, and now Batman? They were all against her!

When she got home, she was going to start a list.

* * *

"It's the first sign of improvement we've seen in months," Leland said to Ivy outside of Harley's cell. "She was responsive to questions, she didn't try to harm herself when the straitjacket came off, and best of all, she admitted that she felt guilty about her perceived role in the Joker's murder. Once she can move past her guilt, then she can truly begin the grieving process."

"And you think it's because of the suicide attempt?" Ivy asked, trying to sound inquiring and courteous, as if she didn't know why Harley was acting this way. As if she didn't know why much better than he did.

"The cry for help, as I suggested earlier," he corrected her. "We stopped diagnosing it as a real suicide attempt some time ago. In truth it was a breakthrough. She wants to be saved, but she also wants to punish herself, and asking us for help would have defeated that. She had to _deceive herself_ into getting help."

"Of course you're right," Ivy said, sounding reluctant but convinced. He wasn't completely off-base, but Harley wasn't the one deceiving Harley. "Can I see her now?"

"For a few minutes," Leland told her. "We don't want to push her too much."

"I totally agree," she said sincerely. She just wanted to push _him_.

Once she was alone with Harley, Ivy took a moment to enjoy the scene in front of her. For weeks Ivy would visit Harley, only to find her in a padded cell and a straitjacket. Anything else was considered a danger to her. Now, however, Harley was in her usual cell, and the jacket was gone. Ivy suspected it would be back when she was gone, but for now Harley was being safely monitored.

Harley was not getting better, but Harley was now in a _position_ to get better. Ivy just had to keep her there.

She'd just have to endure a little gloating to do it.

"Sorry, Pammy," Harley said in that _mockery_ of a voice. "But Harley can't come out and play right now. She's preparing for her next scene. The critics were quite impressed with Act One. 'Why, Rhett, ah do declare, ah'll nevah slash mah wrists open again!' Ha-ha."

Ivy didn't need to fake the grimace of distaste. The Joker had taught Harley to put herself down too well. "It's bad enough that you think you're funny," she said icily, "but you think you're _smart_ too. You'll never get away with this. They'll find out you're not dead, and then Harley will be free but you won't be able to join her."

"Now Ivy, I've already gotten away with it. It's just not time to spring the punchline yet. That will be after we walk out of here together. They'll push her out the door! I once went through fast-track rehabilitation three times, remember? They were practically _begging_ me to leave. Me! The Joker! Everyone said I was crazy – except them!" Her smile was unholy.

Ivy was gripping the straps of her purse so tightly that she felt the leather burning her skin. But she didn't have an option. "He" had to see her impotent fury, her inability to be anything more than a spectator as the "Joker" put one over the doctors and tricked them into releasing Harley back into his "care". "He" would be all the more determined to do it, seeing how it made her suffer helplessly.

"Even so," she said, "when she gets out of Arkham, she won't be with you. She'll be with me! I'll make sure of it!"

Harley just shook her head pityingly. "You can have her when I'm done with her, Pammy, and not a moment sooner. You know that. That's how it's always been, remember? I don't share my toys. I just drop them when I'm bored." The grin was really starting to make Ivy boil. "You're a scavenger, Ivy. You hover around the edges of my existence, waiting for my scraps. You're just as much of a hyena as Bud and Lou are!"

_Damien and Slobberpuss_, Ivy thought automatically. Those were Harley's names for the hyenas. But Harley's psyche was starting to fracture so badly that her Joker persona was even calling the pets by the names HE had given them.

She was still running out of time. She had to speed up Harley's "grieving process" so that the asylum and the courts would agree it was safe to release her. She had to crush Jenna's and get the Rydbergii back in the black so that they'd consider Harley safe with her.

And she had to do it yesterday.

"I'm finished waiting," Ivy said coldly. "I'm taking her now. In a week I'll be ready to get her out _my_ way – by force. You'll _never_ be able to have her released that fast."

"Hm, I'd almost enjoy seeing that," Harley said. "Then you'd be a fugitive, and we wouldn't have to hear you _pissing and moaning_ about that Jenna anymore. Harley suggested just the other day that you and Jenna should just have a hair-pulling fight and get it over with."

Ivy flinched. It was those moments that felt like a slap in the face – when "he" suggested that Harley was no more interested in listening to her talk than anyone else. Maybe Harley didn't want to be her friend so much any more. Maybe it was all so _useless_.

"Delightful girl, that Jenna!" Harley went on. "I might just buy her a drink – with real money!"

"I'll get what I want, when I want it, all of it!" Ivy burst out shrilly. "And not you or Jenna or the Bat can stop me!"

"Joker" just smiled at her. "Well, we'll see what Harley has to say about that when you come crashing through her door."

* * *

"Thanks for coming over at this hour, Harvey," Jenna said. She poured a glass of double-malt Scotch and set it in front of her as she leaned over the bar. We couldn't help but notice the view down her blouse. We could have flipped our coin between her breasts. We could have _bounced_ it.

We shrugged as we took the liquor. "The coin came up heads. How did you get our number?"

"The waitstaff here has made plenty of friends among everyone's henchmen," Jenna said. "One of my servers got the number from one of yours – Dildo, I think?"

Either she's being dense on purpose, which we don't find very attractive, or she's making a double entendre, which we do. "Ditto," we said curtly before knocking the Scotch back.

"Right," Jenna said. "I hope you weren't busy."

"Did we say we were busy?"

"Maybe you were being polite."

"That's Harvey's thing. You're not talking to Harv right now." You might wish you were, though.

"Well then," Jenna went on, "we've been spending a lot of time together lately. Getting to know each other? Actually, when you think about it, we've been getting to know each other ever since that day in Starbucks, haven't we?"

We nodded. The tight strapless blouse she had on was a nice shade of what we would call "midnight green". Pam always preferred a brighter hue. So, close enough to green to be reminiscent of Ivy, but not enough to be obvious about it. We're not stupid. We're not dead below the waist either. A leer was definitely called for.

"So," she said, "I think it's only natural that we continue getting to know each other outside of the club. What do you think of that?"

"Well, that depends," we pointed out. "Would we be getting to know each other in public, or in private?"

"Both, of course," Jenna said in a way that could be called "coquettish". If she was younger.

"Hm," we said. We fished out our coin and laid it on the bar. "Heads, you're willing to be seen in public with us because you don't want us to think you'd be ashamed to be seen together."

"I wouldn't be ashamed, Harvey."

"Tails," we continued, "you want to be absolutely sure that Pam hears about it."

We wondered if she realized how brittle that flirtatious smile has gotten.

"Harvey, Ivy doesn't mean – "

"Wait for it," we said, holding up our hand as we snatched the coin with the other and flipped it in the air with one smooth motion. It landed in our palm and we looked at it.

"Why Jenna," we said, showing her the unscarred side, "it's nice to meet someone who likes us for us. Although why anyone would like Harv is beyond us."

She smiled uncertainly at us.

"Still," we went on, "we don't need to make it official right away. We can keep it private." We looked her in the eyes, then dropped our gaze pointedly to her cleavage. "Better yet, we can fuck you right now on this bar."

Jenna evidently needed a moment to process our last remark, but she handled it well. "Two-Face, you really are the bad boy, aren't you?" she asked suggestive.

"Is that a yes?"

"The staff will be in soon. We could get caught. Mmm. Thrilling. Still, we shouldn't take _too_ long."

We sighed. Of course we believed Selina anyway, but Jenna isn't looking at us. She's looking over our shoulder. The lust in her eyes is real, but it's not for us. We think Selina was even right about that. We don't think she's thinking about her employees catching us on the bar. She's picturing Pammy instead.

And we think _that_ takes "fucked up" to a whole new level. We scorn groupies because they aren't good for anything but sex. That doesn't mean we won't still fuck them. But rough sex with an attractive woman isn't worth it if you're dealing with the seriously messed up. Believe us, if we hadn't learned that lesson from Pammy yet, we'd probably still be calling her "Petal".

For that reason, we don't even look down while she begins tugging her shirttails out of her tight jeans. We just turn away.

"Locking the doors?" she asked. "I thought we wanted to be adventurous."

"There is no _we_," we corrected her. "We is three, and we don't like three. And we definitely don't like _you_."

"_What?!_"

We look at her when we're halfway across the bar. Her cheeks are flushed, but we doubt it's from desire, judging by the offended look on her face – or the slight edge of desperation in her voice. "Selina called us earlier."

"_Selina Kyle_ is partnered up with Ivy." Jenna should know Selina is a good friend of ours. Which means she's more stupid than we thought, or more out of control than we suspected, because she doesn't hide how she feels about Selina from us.

"Selina is one of us," we reply. "Us meaning the Rogues. She'd never side with a groupie over one of us, even Ivy."

Jenna flinches, and we like it. She should be scared. Setting the two most dangerous women in the city against her? Ivy will make her miserable. Selina will make her scream.

"I'm not a groupie any more, Harvey!" she burst out, recovering. "I run this club! People like you come to _me_ so they can relax!"

"Frankly, Scarlett, we don't give a damn," we said. Not that you'd ever confuse Jenna with Vivien Leigh. You couldn't even confuse her with Traci Lords. "And we wouldn't worry about opening tonight," we add as we turn our back on her. For all intents and purposes, it's forever. "Because _people like us_ won't give a damn about you either."

The irony is, we're horny now. Fate truly is a bitch.

* * *

Ivy's lip twitched. "What have you – "

Clayface coughed into a fist at the other end of the bar.

She clutched the rag in her hand a little tighter as she mechanically shined the bar. "I mean, yes, you practically had a right to escape from Arkham if they still haven't fixed the coolant intake valves."

"Exactly!" Victor said, pounding the bar with one fist. "It was nigh on self-defense."

She smiled in what she hoped was an ingratiating manner and continued to refrain from turning the conversation to Harley.

Victor Fries was the first high-profile Rogue to visit the Rydbergii since Selina's visit. Granted, it might not necessarily have been Selina's doing. Victor had been noncommittal the last time Ivy had seen him at Arkham and invited him to the Lounge. Maybe he would have come regardless. Yes, probably he would have.

What mattered, however, was that Victor had to come a second time. And Clayface had told her time and again that if she wanted that to happen, she would need to try a little "customer service". That included allowing her guests to dictate the direction of the conversation.

Ivy really wanted to know whether or not Harley was still being segregated from the general population, but unless _Victor_ brought it up, she wasn't going to find out. Every time she tried to change the subject, Clayface cleared his throat, damn him.

He was also fixated on her shining the bartop. She didn't know why, but it gave her something to do when she really, _really_ wanted to interrupt. (Especially Victor, that crushing bore!)

Victor looked at his drink. "This could use more ice," he said.

"It looks – "

Clayface belched loudly.

She ground her teeth. "Let me fix that."

As she faced away from Victor and pelted his drink with fresh ice cubes, she heard Raven murmuring to her left, something about "seeing this on Cheers".

"I don't do television," Clayface muttered, managing to sound insulted.

Ivy sighed. The night might possibly be a successful one. It would also be very, very long. Maybe failure was an option after all.

She turned around. "Here's your . . . "

Ever since that first day in her parents' greenhouse, when a plant had hit her with a feeling she tentatively identified as "satisfaction", Poison Ivy had discovered that she could sense these feelings from a distance equivalent to the distance others could hear people shouting. She had also learned how to identify the emotion in an instant.

Therefore, at that moment, Ivy knew immediately that there were plants shrieking in pain, and that it was coming from the Virginia creeper that had covered most of the exterior masonry of the south wall since renovations had been completed. From the sensations that were assaulting her mind, it was happening to a wide swath of the wall.

It was also very probable that the climbing plants had been set on fire.

That was why she dropped Victor's drink, and his fresh ice cubes, on the floor.

"Excuse me," she said distantly. "I have a problem to take care of."

She didn't notice Victor and Hagen exchange looks. She just went to the nearest fire extinguisher mounted on the wall, took it, and headed for the back entrance.

This, at least, she could do by herself.

* * *

Jenna grinned savagely as she set the makeshift wick alight. The ivy was already burning quite well, and she had two more walls to see to, but she'd brought plenty of bottles. After all, Two-Face had told her no one would be drinking liquor at her club tonight.

She hurled it at the wall, and it shattered, spreading flaming alcohol across the green blanketing the wall's surface. The ivy was burning quite well now. The ivy was burning. _Ivy was burning_.

She liked the sound of that. She liked it very much. She would chase that feeling.

Jenna had her chance a moment later when Poison Ivy herself burst out of the back door. The two women looked at each other for a moment before Jenna yanked another homemade Molotov cocktail out of her satchel.

Unfortunately for her, there was no time for her to do anything else.

Ivy immediately turned the full brunt of the fire extinguisher on her, aiming directly for her face. Jenna screamed and dropped the glass bottle. Then Ivy reversed the firefighting tool and rammed the base into Jenna's stomach. She folded in on herself and hit the concrete almost as fast as the cocktail had.

Clayface and Mr. Freeze appeared a moment later. Freeze took one look at the approaching conflagration and drew his freeze ray. In a few seconds the burning ivy was a billion crystal fragments raining down.

"Thank you, Victor," Ivy said calmly as she set the fire extinguisher down. She grabbed Jenna by the hair and pulled her to her knees. Then Ivy peered into her bag. "Well, well," she said. "I hope if you were going to burn me alive, Jenna, that you brought the premium brands."

"F-fuck you," Jenna gasped, clutching ineffectually at the nails wrapped cruelly in her hair. "You might as well let me go. Everyone knows the police never gets called here, you fucking _whore_."

"Or I could kill you," Ivy said.

"They'll shut you down for that," Jenna sneered.

"Jesus Christ, this twat never knows when to shut up," Clayface mumbled.

Ivy looked at her for a few moments. "I know how to shut her up," she finally said.

Jenna's nostrils were suddenly plugged with a heavy, cloying odor of fruit and decaying plant matter. She stared uncomprehendingly at Ivy for a second before her heart melted. "Greeeeeeen," she crooned.

* * *

"I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you for this," Jenna said earnestly.

_You could start by finally shutting up_, Ivy thought. She didn't say anything, though. She just drove. It was her own fault, really. What else could she have expected? She'd been dosing Jenna with pheromones for almost twelve hours.

"I mean, you're even letting me wear one of your old outfits! You really think I look all right in this?"

_If you ignore the fact that you're only a B-cup. _"You look fine," Ivy said. "Besides, they won't really pay attention to your body anyway. They'll just see the red hair and the green tights, and then they'll start panicking." Ivy hadn't experienced that feeling in a while. She wouldn't be feeling it any time soon either. Oh, well.

Jenna beamed at her. "I just can't believe you're doing this for me. I tried to set the Lounge on fire last night!"

_I'm doing this for the lives you murdered last night._ Ivy's fingers whitened as she held onto the steering wheel so that she wouldn't throttle Jenna.

_And for those black roses I never received._ Ivy coughed as she swallowed the new urge to tear the wheel off the steering column and beat Jenna to death with it.

Like every other woman Ivy had used her pheromones on since she'd begun using those special herbal supplements, Jenna had instantly adored her. It didn't matter that a minute before, Jenna had been closer to an uncontrollable homicidal fury. It didn't matter that Jenna had increasingly resented her for years. It didn't even matter that she'd embarked on an escalating campaign to ruin Ivy earlier that year. Jenna's mindset had immediately reverted to that of the wannabe sidekick from years before.

At least Jenna was straight. She had _not _become sexually attracted to her as well. There would have been no way Ivy could have kept the ruse going so long if that had been the case. Ivy would have just killed her and been done with it.

Still, that didn't mean it had been easy.

* * *

"Make yourself at – have a seat," Ivy said, having almost choked on the word "home". Her first guest should have been Harley, and not this worthless pest.

Jenna looked around, obviously in awe. "It's like your inner sanctum," she said breathlessly.

Ugh. Maybe Ivy could dial the adoration back a little. "Ozzie should be in bed by now, so we'll have the place to ourselves until morning."

"I always suspected you had him under your control, but I was never sure," Jenna said. "Wow, the Penguin! And you have him under your thumb like that."

"Mm, thank you," Ivy said. It was the reverence Poison Ivy was due, but at this point in her life, empty praise from a greened moron was just tiresome. "Tell me, what are your future plans?" she asked from the kitchen as she poured herself a glass of wine. Then she poured another for Jenna – the cheap stuff, of course.

"Well, the club isn't doing very well at this point," Jenna called out, sounding a trifle subdued, "but it was always about getting your attention, so I really don't need it any longer."

"Yes, I completely agree," Ivy said as she came back in and handed Jenna her swill. She accepted it like it was the water of life. "You don't need Jenna's any more. And now that you have my attention, what do you plan on doing with it?"

Jenna looked away. "First of all, apologize. I'm sure you're still a little upset with me."

Ivy hid her grimace behind her wineglass. "Yes, well, there are better ways of getting me to notice you than setting fire to the babies."

"No, I mean, well yes, that too! But also for the flowers."

Slim fingers tightened instinctively on the stem of her glass. Ivy stood up again and went back into the kitchen. Something was making the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. "Well, then apologize away," she said.

"I know I must have hurt you," Jenna told her. "I mean, everyone knows how you feel about flower arrangements – "

Ivy grabbed the countertop with both hands.

"And I shouldn't have included that note about Quinn so soon after her suicide attempt – "

If she moved her right hand just a little bit, she could open the drawer and get the cleaver out.

"But I was just so jealous of her! Okay, yes, she's your friend, but it's obvious she's never getting out of Arkham again, and I think I could help you so much more now."

If Jenna could have seen her face at that moment, the sheer terror would have sliced through her green adulation like a surgical laser. Poison Ivy could barely comprehend the enormity, the _monstrosity_ of what Jenna was describing. She had sent Ivy a bouquet of rotting corpses after Harley had _cut_ herself? Because she was so much _better_ than Harley?

There was a way to kill someone in such a way that it took them a week to bleed out. Ivy knew how to do it. She could see how much Jenna liked cutting. She could cut Jenna until her stunted soul _broke_.

"But anyway, that was wrong of me, and I'm really sorry."

Ivy took a series of deep breaths. It was incredibly tempting, but she wouldn't do it. She wouldn't give Jenna the mercy of a week's suffering, not when she could torture her for the remainder of Jenna's days. And she knew how to do THAT too. She knew from personal experience. Ivy had suffered terribly from almost the first day she had taken over the Iceberg Lounge. That kind of exhausting, bone-deep isolation and rejection had almost driven a goddess around the bend. Let's see how a mere mortal could handle it.

And so, instead of relieving the itch in her hands by getting out that nice, big, sharp meat cleaver, Ivy just went back out. "I think we should both just move on from that, don't you?" she asked. She would _not_ say that she accepted Jenna's apology.

"Oh yes, yes," Jenna agreed fervently.

Ivy hit her with yet another dose of pheromones. Jenna almost fell over.

"With that out of the way," Ivy went on, sitting across from Jenna, "I'm a respectable woman of business, Jenna. I have an image to maintain. I can't go around punishing the greedy and the bigoted for their genocidal actions like I used to. But I can't just let them get away with it either." Hm, she'd been letting them do just that lately. Something for another day.

"How can I help?" Jenna asked.

"Well, I'm in need of a . . . protégé."

* * *

Of course the little bitch had fallen for it. She had been salivating before Ivy had finished speaking. She'd wanted some kind of validation from Ivy for years, and at last she was going to get it. It was pathetic. Ivy hadn't believed her estimation of Jenna Leibowitz could fall further. She'd been wrong.

Just a groupie. Ivy never had any use for them. They were just there to be fucked. And despite the rumors that had surrounded her and Harley almost from the very beginning, Ivy was not interested in fucking any of them.

Ivy loathed men, and she would never be much of a heterosexual when she couldn't stomach the thought of having sex with men (Harvey being the sole exception). But the chances of Ivy taking a woman into her bed wasn't much higher. Because of her striking beauty, fame, and alabaster skin, there was no way Ivy could ever hope to hide her identity from someone if she wanted to date a civilian. Consequently, Ivy could only sleep with women who weren't afraid of who she was. And those very few women were always the said useless, disgusting groupies.

Well, and Harley. But that ship had sailed years before. And Selina, but it was hard to say which of them would be more horrified by the idea, and . . .

Ivy's chain of thought was suddenly derailed, not by Selina (UGH!) but by Harley. Yes, that ship had sailed, but the S.S. Joker had run aground and become a derelict hulk that would see the open water no more. Harley was very single now. And they would be spending an awful lot of time together if Ivy's plan succeeded. They would be spending an awful lot of time together, for an awfully long time.

Her heart spasmed. Harley had become the most important person, the _only_ important person in her life, because even Poison Ivy couldn't fail to respond to the fact that she had always been important to Harley. And Harley had responded to her. She had! That night, the getaway, the kissing . . . Joker had taken that from her, but could she take it back?

Ivy blinked. She wanted to. _Badly_.

But to do that, she needed to eliminate her competition. And said competition was blissfully blathering on next to her. Fatally unaware of what Ivy really thought of her.

Jenna had mocked Harley, sneered at her massive grief and self-loathing, used her suffering as a stick to poke Ivy where it would hurt the most. _Gaia, for that Jenna would hurt where it hurt her the most. Every day. For the rest of her long, miserable life._

_Starting today_.

Ivy had been forced to suffer the constant presence of Jenna because for some reason, her pheromones couldn't keep women greened anywhere near as long as men. She estimated that even now, after hours of exposure to Ivy's powers, Jenna would regain her senses once they were apart for little more than five minutes. Enough time to access the paper mill's headquarters. Enough time to use at least one of the homemade Molotov cocktails with only Jenna's fingerprints, stolen from Jenna's inventory. Enough time to be seen by plenty of witnesses.

Enough time to come to her senses by the time she would be taken into custody.

Ivy smiled sweetly at Jenna, who blushed in response, as she pulled up in front of their destination. "Trust me, Jenna. I will treasure what you're about to do for the rest of my life."

To be continued . . .


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Bruce scowled at the Batcave monitor. Every time he turned his focus on one of them, the other tried something. It was painfully predictable.

He didn't turn at the telltale sound of Selina coming down the stairs. He barely even noticed. It had been Selina's plan, and it had been a good plan, but it had relied on the dubious premise that Ivy could be kept in line. And well, clearly that was no more possible than it had ever been.

"Ouch," Selina said, looking at the monitor showing the evening news, then at the look on his face. "Either the Knights lost again, or you saw the lead story and it was - "

"I saw the lead story," Bruce growled unnecessarily.

Selina winced. "How bad was it?"

"You _knew_?"

"Well, it's not like I have access to a television when I'm on the prowl, but I saw it on the headline crawl in Times Square so I popped into the Lounge to get the unofficial version. There was a reporter?"

Bruce pushed a button on the console and the recording started anew. The news had set off about nine different red flags on the Batcomputer when it hit the airwaves.

"Ivy, do you have a statement about Ms. Leibowitz's accusations?"

Once again he watched as the television reporter shoved a microphone in Poison Ivy's face. The harsh glare from the TV camera spotlight showed, once again, how insane Ivy really was if she insisted her skin wasn't green.

"She doesn't seem too upset about having a pushy reporter and a camera crew in the Lounge entrance," Selina observed.

"Of course not," Bruce graveled. "She's enjoying this."

"What accusations?" Ivy asked. She was trying to hide it, but Bruce recognized the smug look in her eyes. "Jenna Leibowitz is beneath my notice, really."

"So you're unaware that Ms. Leibowitz invaded the headquarters of a local greeting card company wearing green tights, and tried to set fire to their main offices for 'crimes against the plant kingdom'?"

"Crimes against the plant kingdom?" Selina winced. "That's zero points for originality, and minus-ten for really wooden dialogue. No pun intended."

"Oh, that," Ivy was saying airily. "I had nothing to do with it. She's been copying me – poorly - for months with that club of hers. I'm not surprised she did it again. I mean, yes, the greeting card industry is responsible for many deaths, but the overall numbers – "

"Yes, yes, Ivy, but she says you used some sort of chemical attack to make her totally loyal to you, and then sent her to set fire to the building."

"Really?" Ivy asked, unconcerned. "Well, I won't dignify that with a response, except to say that you can ask every woman who ever crossed paths with me in my – former life. Ask them if I ever used chemicals or drugs to make them do something they wouldn't normally do. None of them will say yes. Men, yes. Women, no. It's like she doesn't know me at all."

"So you're saying the accusations are false?"

Bruce could read the look on Ivy's face perfectly. It said "Wasn't that obvious from my last answer, you dimwit?"

"Wasn't that perfectly obvious from her answer?" Selina asked.

Bruce decided not to mention what he'd been thinking.

"Green tights, you say?" Ivy asked instead. "Do you have a picture?"

The reporter leaned partially off-camera and then handed Ivy what was evidently a folded copy of the late edition.

Ivy looked at it and then chuckled unpleasantly.

"Don't say anything, Pammy," Selina muttered. "Don't say it."

"Well," Ivy purred, "if she was attempting to look like me, perhaps she could have sacrificed just 1/10,000th of one tree and made use of a little Kleenex."

Selina sighed as Bruce turned it off. "Well, I guess she deserved a little cattiness."

"And what about Jenna? What did _she _deserve?" Bruce grunted. "You and I both know, unlike virtually everyone else, that women are no longer immune to greening."

"Unfortunately," Selina muttered.

"Clearly Ivy decided to eliminate her competition the quick and easy way. Because that's how she likes life, easy," Bruce said angrily. "She set Jenna up, when all she had to do was what you told her: wait and let Jenna destroy herself."

Selina didn't respond the way he'd been expecting, though. "Actually," she said, "from what I heard at the Lounge, Jenna was trying to destroy more than that."

"What do you mean?"

"The cameras were gone when I swung by the Lounge, and so was Ivy. But Hagen was there."

"Clayface?"

"No, Joe Hagen the electrical contractor—Of course, Clayface! He told me that Jenna started it last night. He and Ivy caught her behind the Rydbergii with a satchel full of Molotov cocktails. She was trying to burn the building down."

Bruce digested that for a moment. "He could be lying," he said finally. "He and Ivy have been working together for weeks."

"No they haven't," Selina said instantly. "Bruce, look, I know you're inclined to see any two rogues in the same place at the same time as a team-up, but believe me, where those two are concerned, more divides them than unites them. There's a lot of history there that has nothing to do with Batman, and it would take a lot more than having once plopped you in a death trap to bring them together."

Bruce grunted.

"Besides, Matt says Victor was there too. And considering Victor was the one who had to give Ivy a ride home the night Matt bought her potpourri, I don't think he has much incentive to lie for her either. If those two say Ivy was acting in self-defense, she was."

He couldn't argue with that. If Victor could back up their story . . . "Rogue justice," he sneered. "Oswald never called the police if there was a problem at the Iceberg, and clearly Ivy kept that policy. Instead of having Jenna arrested for arson – "

"She framed her for attempted arson. Ironically, she framed Jenna for a _lesser offense_. As far as 'The System' goes—the official, legal, institutional punishments—she's getting off easy."

"That's not much of a defense. Ivy is capable of anything," Bruce growled. It was halfhearted, though. Ivy _was_ guilty of obstruction of justice and a handful of other crimes, but she had been guilty of worse. Much worse. She had practiced restraint, for a rogue, and while that normally wouldn't sway him, the fact remained that Harley Quinn was in a very dangerous mental state, and Ivy was, in all probability, the best chance of bringing her out of it.

"Yes, she's _capable_ of it, but she didn't do it. It's a start. If we drop it, she might just settle back to the path she was on before Jenna came along to firebomb her."

"I should make sure she knows I'm onto her," he muttered.

"I'm sure she already does, World's Greatest Detective."

Grunt.

* * *

We felt like this was the second time we'd done this. Granted, normally we never do something only once if we can do it a second time. But "having a private meeting in a nightclub with a beautiful redhead in green" was _not_ normal for us.

"Two-Face," Ivy said as we came in.

Ouch. "No Harvey?" we asked.

"You reap what you sow," she quoted.

Double ouch – just the way we liked it. "If this is a seduction attempt, maybe you should stick to the pheromones," we said.

If it was a seduction attempt, and at that point it was looking like a two percent chance, she wasn't putting much effort into it. Ivy wasn't behind the bar, and she didn't appear to have a drink ready for us. Clearly she was paying attention the last time we met, if this was her way of telling us that actions have consequences.

Now if only she could apply that lesson to herself.

"This is _not_ me trying to seduce you," Ivy said frostily. "I said I wanted to talk to you, not fuck you."

"Jenna said she wanted to talk. Next thing we knew, she was straddling our lap, trying to polish our coin."

Ivy looked revolted. "I suppose you didn't need to flip for that. Two-Face gets his 'coin polished' and your better half gets a little payback, screwing my biggest rival."

"No, we did not have to flip for it," we conceded. "We had no difference of opinion, and therefore no need to let Fate decide. But we agreed in the other direction, Ivy, not the one you seem to think: neither of us have any interest in a psychotic social climber spreading her legs."

She looked shocked by that. Well, Pammy always did think she knew everything. We sneered at her.

"You're a bright girl, Pammy. You can figure it out as quickly as we did: _We_ weren't the ones she was trying to screw."

Recovering from the surprise, Ivy returned our sneer. "So? You would both get something out of it. Wouldn't that be a win-win? Isn't that how your nasty side likes it?"

"No," we repeated. "We can appreciate your logic, Pammy, but you miss the salient point. We are a man. If we wanted to screw the little tramp, that would be a handy rationale, but since we didn't, it's not. We weren't interested. She didn't appeal. Get it? And we're not so hard up for the horizontal mambo that we'll let some demented nutjob use _us_ to get back at _you_."

She just stood there. "Well," she finally said. "This might go a little easier than I hoped."

"What will?"

"Even though neither of us find her all that appealing, evidently, we do need to talk about Jenna. You heard the news?"

We nodded. "We saw the television. Kleenex, Ivy? We thought that was a little petty."

She just smiled back at us. "I thought I deserved to be a bit catty."

"Speaking of which, we hear Selina has been by. Business picking up?"

Ivy's smile vanished. She got up from her barstool in a huff and went back behind the bar. "I don't want to talk about her," she said.

"Then give us the drink you should have offered us when we came in, and we will not speak her name." We glared at her. "You're going to have to get used to it, if you ever want our business one day."

Muttering something we didn't catch, Ivy poured us a double-malt Scotch. She was quick and efficient, something we wouldn't associate with Ivy and day-wage labor. We guessed the rumors were true. "Here," she said, shoving the glass in our direction. "You'll pardon the lack of niceties. I'm still _getting used to it_."

Ignoring her, we took the glass. We remembered times when she was nicer about it. Usually sex followed. On second thought, it was probably best if we didn't remember that.

"Jenna, then?"

"From your 'psychotic social climber' remark, I assume you know the truth about her background."

"Groupie, wannabe sidekick, we heard." We didn't say it was from Selina. We did get our drink, after all.

"And do you know what she did the other night?"

"We heard a rumor. Tried to burn this place down with you in it. Slam-dunk for the prosecution. She certainly had motive."

Ivy frowned. "We were still open, _Harvey_. She tried to burn it down with me, Victor, and Hagen in it. Not to mention my entire staff."

Once again, we were surprised to find our opinion of Jenna could sink lower than it already had. The Rogues might not be frequenting the Lounge any longer, but people like Raven and Dove have a lot of goodwill with us.

"You misunderstand us, Pammy. We did not say 'she had a motive' meaning 'she was justified.' We… I was speaking as a prosecutor. Jenna has such a public history of animosity towards you. Escalating animosity. When something like that finally erupts into a scarred side up action, her credibility is shot. Even in a she said/she said stand off with an established villain."

"Oh."

We could tell she was thrown off balance by the unexpected support. An unexpected bonus.

"Interesting that you thought we were critical of you," we chuckled, sipping our drink with a contented smile. "For nearly getting yourself burned up, that's an odd thing to be criticized for. But then, we suppose you're used to it. People do tend to harbor strong grievances against you, Pammy."

"Yes, well, I harbor a _very_ strong grievance against Jenna. She tried something that can never be forgiven." She held up a hand before we could ask what – sarcastically. Pammy doesn't forgive much. See "ceramic pot shards in the ass" incident. "I don't like to speak of it. Just thinking about it makes me want to kill everyone in a five-mile-radius."

"Well, then we'd appreciate it if you stop thinking about it – or at very least, stretch it to six miles or cut it down to four. We hate to think we're about to die in a killing spree based on an odd number."

That seemed to calm her down a bit, judging by her smile. She never was impervious to the ol' Dentmeister charm. Then her smile faded, and her eyes betrayed a quiet, seething rage. The ol' Dentmeister charm never worked for very long, either.

"I'm going to make her suffer, Harvey," Ivy told us. "She'll suffer every day for the rest of her life. But I – " She sighed bitterly. "For reasons that will become clear, I can't do this alone. I need your help and Eddie's and Crane's, and every other criminal in Gotham."

We sighed ourselves. She needs our help. She _wants_ our help, more like it. Typical Ivy assuming that just because she wants it, everyone will give it to her.

"Christmas morning for you, Harvey," she added when we didn't respond at once. "I am _asking_ for your help." She folded her arms and looked away. "Please," she grumbled.

. . .

"I'm not the only one she's offended. She thought she could become one of _us_ by replacing me, screwing you, and hosting everyone else in her little club. A pathetic, sniveling _groupie_, Harvey."

. . .

"She's starved for our attention, Harvey. She's such an empty, soul-sucking vacuum that she needs us to notice her to feel alive. She's like a groupie on _steroids_. Frankly," she admitted reluctantly, "she needs to be made an example of. You can all tell yourselves that's what you're doing, making an example of her. It has nothing to do with helping me."

. . . "Did you put something in our drink?"

"Ice?"

"We must be hallucinating. We thought you said 'please'."

She looked pissed by that. "Did you hear anything else I said? And anyway, I'm not that bad!"

"Uh, no, Ivy, you really are that bad. In fact, you're often a lot worse. Why do you think I kicked you out of my lair last week? You never ask for things, you demand them."

"Harvey – "

We fished our coin out of our pocket. "Heads, we help you, as a reward for you learning how to act like a human being. Tails, we help you, so we can tell every man in Gotham about how you asked for their help. Pleaded for it. Hell, practically _begged_ – "

"All right, just flip the damn thing!"

We smiled and flipped it – not because she told us, but because we wanted to. We raised our hand and looked at it. "Tails," we said happily.

"Fine. Will you listen now?"

"Gladly, once we've had our second Scotch."

Ivy rolled her eyes.

* * *

Jenna held her chin up high when the orderly came for her. "Doc said it's been twenty-four hours," he told her. "You can get your meds and sit in the rec room for a while before your first therapy session."

"Yes, that will be fine," she told him.

He looked at the ceiling briefly before taking her out of her cell.

She was still extraordinarily pissed at Ivy for what she'd done. The realization of what had happened when she found herself in those offices with the lit cocktail in her hand was bad. The memory of all the things that lemony bitch had forced her to say was ten times worse.

That being said, in one important respect she had made it. She was one of Them. She was a costumed criminal, a Rogue. None of that sidekick shit for her, she was a woman in charge of herself. And now she had the street cred of being confined to Arkham after everyone saw her being taken away on television.

Ivy wouldn't be able to get away from her now. Sooner or later, she'd end up back in here with Jenna and all the others. And until that happened, she'd have to take Jenna's business. She wouldn't be able to deny someone of her stature, the others would _demand_ Ivy let her in. Ivy would have to pretend to smile as she served Jenna drinks like everyone else.

Meanwhile, she'd have to come up with a fitting punishment for Harvey too.

She was so lost in contemplating her new future that she didn't even notice the trip to the rec room. "Thirty minutes," he told her as they passed through a set of double doors. He handed her off to a second orderly. "Take your meds like a good girl, okay?"

Jenna didn't answer. She just looked around uncomprehendingly. "Who are these people?" she asked after a minute, bewildered.

"Your fellow patients," the second orderly told her.

"Uh, no," she corrected him. "That man who was just checkmated by an empty chair is not my fellow patient. That woman who appears to believe she's Judy Garland is not my fellow patient. And the Mongoloid in the back? The one who is pasting jigsaw pieces to his face? That man is _not my fellow patient_."

"Damn, is he doing that again?" the orderly asked. "Wait right here."

"But – " And he was gone. Jenna had never been in Arkham before, so she didn't know how things were done here. But this didn't seem right at all.

"You'll get used to it."

Jenna looked to her right. Where had this jumpy, shifty teenager come from? "Used to what?"

"To being a cartoon character. I was shocked too when I discovered we're all characters in a cartoon, but I adjusted. These poor souls," he said, gesturing around the room, "they haven't adapted yet."

Wow. They were just like the Rogues, except they lacked creativity. "Where are all the criminals?" she asked. "The Riddler? The Mad Hatter? Scarecrow?"

"Oh, they have their own set," the lunatic explained to her. "They're the stars of the show, you know. They're in the other wing."

_The other wing_.

Jenna stormed over to the window where the nurse was sitting. "Excuse me, but I appear to be in the wrong part of the hospital," she said, agitated.

"You need to take your sedative," the nurse told her.

"No, no, I do not belong in here with these garden-variety loons!" Jenna burst out. "I belong in the other wing!"

The nurse looked at her cynically. "You're the new girl, right? The one on the TV?"

Jenna stood up straighter. "Yes, that was me."

"Yes, well," the nurse replied, fishing out a file, "it says here your doctor feels that as you're not a threat to society, you don't need to be confined in our maximum-security wing."

"Not a threat to society?! I tried to burn down Corporate America!" It was no longer prudent to deny it or blame it on Ivy. She needed to make this crime her own or they wouldn't respect her!

"Look, Ivy Junior," the nurse replied, "I'm going to bend the rules a little bit and tell it to you straight." She leaned forward and beckoned Jenna with a finger. She bent over.

"You're not the first copycat we've ever had," the nurse said. "The doctors have learned from experience that everyone is safer and happier when we keep the copycats away from the real criminals."

"_Real criminals?_"

The nurse just put a little paper cup of pills in front of her, and then closed the shutter.

Jenna stared at the pills. The doctors were keeping her away from her brethren because she wasn't _dangerous enough?!_

Well, screw that!

She tried to choke the chess player to death by stuffing pawns down his throat, but as she would learn, all that would get her was four days in a padded room.

Like the nurse said, they'd gotten copycats before.

* * *

"Harleen is recovering remarkably, Pamela," Dr. Bartholomew assured her, looking almost insufferably pleased with himself. "We have her on fast-track rehabilitation now. She could be out in a week or two."

"Mm-hm, and what happens then?" Ivy asked, waiting for the perfect opportunity to tell him.

"Well, we can't just release her out onto the street. Nobody wants her to regress into a life of crime. This is a huge opportunity for her. I think instead of releasing her right away, we'll have the courts terminate the involuntary commitment order and issue a court order for outpatient commitment."

"So you think she could get better outside these walls with the right monitoring?" Ivy asked.

Dr. Bartholomew looked at her for a few moments before answering. "Pamela, I'm pleased to see you've given up your criminal ways, and I know how fond of Harleen you are, but I hope you weren't thinking we'd just let her out the front door and into your waiting arms. There are procedures to be followed, and the court has to approve everything."

If that wasn't a perfect opportunity, then Ivy didn't know what was. "I completely understand that," she told him, "which is why I've filed a motion with the courts to have Harley released into my care under one of your 'outpatient commitment' orders."

The doctor gaped at her. "Excuse me?"

"I've consulted with attorneys, Doctor," Ivy told him. She trusted that she was now the one who looked insufferably pleased with herself. "They tell me that under the law, Harley has the right to counsel on her behalf. They also tell me that under the law, Harley's status needs to be reviewed by the courts every six months. She hasn't been here six months yet, but why not get a jump on things?"

"Pamela," Dr. Bartholomew told her, "I appreciate your concern for her, but – "

"Doctor, Harley has not been charged with any crime," Ivy reminded him. "She was brought in the night the Joker died and, because she was considered a danger to herself, she was committed under a civil order. And you yourself have _just admitted_ that she's recovering remarkably. There is absolutely no legal reason why a court shouldn't allow a successful woman of business such as myself to have temporary custody of her. I can devote both time and resources to her that you cannot, and again, you yourself have admitted how 'fond' and 'concerned' I am when it comes to Harley."

"Pamela – "

"Look, I . . . _appreciate_ all that you've tried to do for her," Ivy allowed, "but my attorneys have already filed the motion. The asylum should be notified any minute now. I assume that, as a trained and dedicated doctor, you will be completely honest when the court asks you to testify?"

The doctor leaned back in his chair and stared at her. "Fine," he eventually said, suddenly seeming all too casual. "I won't oppose her release."

Her heart leapt a little, but it was held back by her suspicion. "What's the catch?"

"No catch. Since you seem to enjoy quoting me, let me remind you that I also said earlier how pleased I was that you had given up your criminal ways," Dr. Bartholomew pointed out. "I've had my eye on you ever since you began visiting her, Pamela. Frankly, I think she's had a more profound effect on _your_ mental health than you've had on hers."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Ivy asked. She disagreed with him, of course, since she was the reason Harley had been committed in the first place.

"She's taught you how to care for another human being, Pamela. I think trying to keep Harleen sane has kept _you_ sane. Which means the sooner she's living under your roof, the better off you – and perhaps the city of Gotham – will be."

Ivy tried not to laugh. A trained doctor, and here he was using armchair psychology on her. Like she needed Harley to save her.

* * *

Harley Quinn sat up in bed, stretched, and yawned. "Yessirree, today's going to be another great day!" she said brightly.

_I keep telling you, don't overdo it, Harl._

"Right, Mistah J," she whispered. "I mean," she said more loudly, "if today's therapy goes well!"

_With some fahva beans . . . and a nice Chianti! A-HAHAHAHA!_

Harley giggled. She hadn't meant to overdo the whole "Joker is dead and I wanna be dead too" routine, but at least that was over and done with, and soon she could look forward to being outside again. And then Puddin' could unveil his new plan.

_Dead/Not Dead – Take Five!_

And then maybe, after it was all over, she could drop by Red's place. She'd be awful sore when Harley got out of Arkham before she could do anything about it, but she'd been the "concerned galpal" for months now, and Harley owed her a little something.

_That might not be the smartest idea, Harl. She won't have to be "concerned galpal" once you're out. Then she'll just be "raging PMS queen" and "bossy plant bitch". Perhaps a "Sorry I Missed You" card? Ha!_

Puddin' wasn't too fond of Red these days. Okay, he had never been fond of her. But normally he saw her as a source of amusement. Recently, however, in the middle of all the gloating, there was the occasional cutting remark that was low on humor and high on venom. Like beating her had become personal or something.

Weird.

Harley stepped out of her cell a few minutes later as the door slid open, and she was surprised to find Dr. Bartholomew waiting for her. "Hey, Doc," she said.

"Harleen," he replied. "Come with me. You remember our past discussion of outpatient treatment?"

"Sure do," Harley said. They were letting her out already? All-righty!

"Well, there's been a slight change of plans."

All-wrongy.

"You see," Dr, Bartholomew continued, "normally we arrange for patients to stay with responsible people who will monitor their compliance with the terms of the commitment order, as well as help them transition back into normal society."

"You mean like a – foster parent?" Harley asked hesitantly.

"Sort of," he said. "We make arrangements with one of a network of people we rely on. That, however, won't be necessary in your case."

"Because I got a clean bill of health, and I don't need monitoring?"

"No, it seems someone applied for the position without warning."

It was then that Harley realized they were very close to the asylum lobby. And that Ivy was standing there, waiting for her.

_Responsible person? Responsible for mass mayhem, maybe! A-haha . . . wait a second._

"Yesterday a court granted Ms. Isley's motion that she be granted custody of you for the duration of your outpatient treatment," Leland explained. "You're all checked out, Harleen, and you can leave whenever you wish."

Harley barely heard his following remarks, something along the lines of "if you have any problems, blah blah blah". She was too busy listening to Mistah J freak out.

_That manipulative little crabapple! Fake a nervous breakdown, Harl – they'll have to keep you here. Wait – attack her! They'll keep you here, AND Pammy will need a hospital stay of her own – hahaha – no, wait! Pretend you're happy to see her. They'll let you out – and then you can knock her out and take her car. Be sure to drive slowly when backing up over her, humans are speed bumps too!_

If it wasn't for the fact that his voice was moving through her mind at practically one hundred miles per second, Harley would have made so many jerks and starts towards and away from Ivy that they would have hospitalized her for epilepsy. As it was, though, Harley needed only a second. "Hey, Red," she said, smiling and making a little wave. It was easy "pretending you're happy to see her", because Harley was. Until Puddin' said she couldn't be any more, that is.

"Harley," Ivy said sweetly, giving Dr. Bartholomew a triumphant look when he made a face at her failure to use the name 'Harleen'. "Are you ready to come back to the Lounge with me?"

"Absafreakinlutely," Harley said honestly. "No offense, doc."

_Nice place to visit, but you wouldn't want to work here! _

It took five minutes of paperwork and twenty yards of walking to Ivy's car for Harley to accept that Ivy was very intentionally staying behind her. She'd have to try something in the car to get away from Red. Then she could have some _real_ alone time with Mistah J.

"What are you smiling at?" Ivy asked.

"Me? Nothing. Just picturing the rest of my day."

"Mm," Ivy said as she opened the passenger-side door for Harley to get in. Once Harley was in her seat, Ivy came back around to the driver's side. She got in and closed the door.

"So, Pammy," Mistah J said as Red stiffened immediately in her seat. "Now that you have Harl, what are you going to do with her? You can lead a clown to the seltzer water, but you can't make her spray it in the wrong direction."

"I'm going to make her better," Ivy told him coldly.

"Is that how you're going to explain it to the police when Harley and I set my plans in motion?"

Ivy didn't respond. She just turned very deliberately so that she was facing Harley.

Harley was suddenly assaulted by a wave of jungle scent so dense that it was clogging up her nose. Another wave followed that, and another after that. She could barely breathe. "Red, what're you – " she asked, utterly dazed.

"Took an extra dose of my special herbs this morning," Ivy explained as she hit Harley with yet another layer of pheromones. "And I just picked up a year's supply. You never know, I might need to up my dosage."

_Doesn't work on me, Pammy! Just for that . . . might have to tell . . . octopus joke before . . . throttle her . . . know she loves it!_

"Die," Ivy hissed before a fresh blast of pheromones hit Harley like being sprayed in the face by a hot shower two inches away. "Die, you fucking bastard!"

"Red, no, you _can't_ – "

"I can, Harley! You may have brought him back to life, but I can bury him in so much fetid soil, decaying leaves and rotting logs that he can never crawl out of his unmarked grave _ever_ again!"

"Red, _please_." It was supposed to be a scream, but Harley could barely even whisper. The air seemed to shimmer before her eyes. When did Gotham get this _hot_?

_Maybe global warming . . . not just a bad joke._

"Drown!" Ivy snarled. "Suffocate! I'll squeeze the life from you until there isn't even a _ghost_ of you to control her ever again, Joker."

It seemed to Harley just before she mercifully passed out that perhaps Mistah J wasn't the only person to make their rivalry a bit more personal.

* * *

"Try to be a little less self-conscious, Echo, okay?" Eddie asked irritably. "Don't look so easily impressed, either. You're my sole sidekick. Act like it."

"Yes, Edward," Talia said quietly. It wasn't easy. She was a beautiful woman. She _knew_ she was a beautiful woman. She had drawn the eyes of men many times in the past. But she had never done so by displaying her body in such a public manner. It had been easy to look at herself in a full-length mirror and admire how her hips looked in spandex, or how the cut of her top and the curve of the question mark emblazoned on the front met perfectly along the swell of her breasts. After years of rejections from Bel- Bruce, it was _very_ nice to feel desirable.

In public, however, it was different. She felt like a tramp, knowing that strange men were looking at her when her outfit was leaving nothing to the imagination.

But Edward had told her to act like none of this was unusual, and so she would. It would be hard, like most everything he asked of her, but unlike the tasks her father had set before her, Edward's intentions for her didn't feel so unattainable.

Still, she unnecessarily adjusted the green diamond mask around her eyes. It was bad enough when someone recognized her as Talia Head. It would be even worse if someone recognized her tonight - the former head of Lexcorp reduced to being "Echo", a criminal's sidekick in tights.

"Nygma," a voice said sweetly.

Talia and Edward both turned at the sound of his name being spoken.

"I trust," Poison Ivy went on, "that your new friend isn't trying to steal my old look?"

"Really, Ivy," Edward drawled. "When did your old look ever incorporate yellow gloves and a belt?"

Talia tried not to tremble as Poison Ivy continued to look at her coldly. "I'm _so_ glad you were finally able to make it, Nygma. Would you be willing to send the girl away for a few minutes? I thought we could speak privately."

Edward shrugged. "Echo, why don't you head over to the bar after Raven seats you? You know what I like."

She didn't move, and Ivy opened her mouth to speak, but Edward held up a hand. "Hold on, Ivy, give her a second."

Talia tried to think quickly. Edward would want a Glenundromm, so . . .

"Is this going to take all evening?" Ivy grumbled.

"LONG - MEN DRUM?" Talia finally asked, just as she was starting to sweat.

"Hm, not too bad," Edward said. "You'll need to be a lot faster than that, though. I'll be back shortly. Assuming," he added, glaring at Ivy, "I don't wake up tomorrow with a sprig of parsley in my hatband."

"That was one time," Ivy shot back. "Trust me, it wouldn't be worth it now."

"I'll just, um, go to the table now," Talia said uncertainly. Figuring out Edward's anagrams was confusing, but she had absolutely no idea what they were talking about. She didn't think she wanted to, either.

"So," the hostess said after Ivy had pulled Edward aside. "Is Query coming later?"

Talia almost ignored the question, as her instinctive response was to treat this woman like the servant she was. But Edward had hammered into her the "social ladder" of this world, and this "Raven" had her outranked. "Query?"

"Um, yeah. I mean, the Riddler usually calls his sidekicks Query and Echo," Raven told her.

She was just the latest in a line of Echoes? Edward had said that most sidekicks were "a dime, a dozen". Talia suddenly felt very anonymous behind the mask, the big question mark, and the name everybody had heard before.

Then again, considering how hard she was trying to escape – from her father, from Metropolis, from strangers who turned their backs on her – losing her identity wasn't so awful.

"Although it's been a long time since he showed up with one of you," Raven added.

"I am sorry, but there will be no Query later tonight," Talia told her. "Or later than that. It's just me."

"Huh!" Raven said. "Well, enjoy your evening."

Talia watched her leave. _Huh?!_ Hopefully this night would become less strange as it went on.

One thing that was definitely strange to Talia as she headed towards the bar was the reaction of the people around her. Or rather, the lack thereof. She'd avoided large gatherings whenever possible since even before leaving Metropolis. It was impossible to walk in public without being recognized, and suddenly it felt like everyone was whispering about her.

Here, though, few gave her a second glance. And of those, no one seemed to scorn her. They were slightly interested, maybe a little admiring of her figure, nothing more. Perhaps because, as the servant said, it had been a long time since Edward had brought someone like her into the Lounge.

Talia was not the Daughter of the Demon's Head any longer. She was just a personal assistant to one of Bel-Bruce's enemies. Actually, you could almost look at her situation as being exactly the same as before. The only difference was that the enemy she served now was much weaker than the one she served before.

But she didn't want to be her father's Daughter any more. She certainly didn't want to be the head of Lioncorp. And she was not a personal assistant. She was THE personal assistant to a man who always had two in the past. A man who was still a big fish in this smaller pond where her father would never dare to look for her.

Also, Talia could not overlook the fact that for the first time in her long life, sex had become something to be enjoyed.

Maybe she'd never really believed it before, but maybe . . . this life could work for her.

Adjusting the neckline of her costume so that it showed off just a tiny bit more, Echo waited for the man to come so she could order a LONG MEN DRUM.

* * *

"What was that about?" Ivy asked once they were alone in her private office. "Don't tell me the _sidekicks_ are speaking in anagrams now."

"She's not supposed to speak in anagrams," Eddie said testily. "She's supposed to think in them. She can't be of any use to me if she can't keep up with the conversation." That was why, since moving in with him and accepting his "protection", Talia had spent the first two hours of every day doing those word games where you had to take a long word and make as many 4-letter words out of them as possible.

She couldn't pick a lock to save her life, and she wouldn't exactly be confused with an Ethiopian marathoner when it came to physical endurance, but he had her doing word problems first.

Well, it wasn't good sidekick training, but it was necessary girlfriend training.

"Where did you find her?" Ivy asked suspiciously. "She's not – "

"She's not a groupie," Eddie said.

"She didn't seem all that bright."

Neither did Harley, and her sexual relationship with the Joker was common knowledge, but nobody would confuse _her_ with one of those dimwits. "Echo may be a C student, C+ tops, but at least she's in the classroom while the groupies are still trying to figure out that you pull to get in the building, not push."

"I think you made more sense when you spoke in anagrams." Ivy shrugged. "Fine, then. It's so nice you were _finally_ able to come to the Rydbergii, Nygma."

Eddie chuckled. "You know, that's the kind of customer service I expected from you, Ivy."

"This is personal business, not the Lounge," Ivy replied. "I trust you got word about – that woman?"

"_That woman?_" Eddie parroted. "What is this, the court at Versailles? Yes, I heard about Jenna. Harvey told me."

Ivy bared her teeth in an expression he supposed was a smile, but which looked a lot more like a snarl. "All right, _Jenna_. The question is, can I trust the other Rogues to be able to keep their tempers in check if she does something they find – personally offensive?"

"You mean, like not flaying her alive if she throws a basket of kittens off a bridge?" Eddie asked.

"Yes, like that," Ivy muttered, looking down and to the left.

Harvey had also mentioned that Selina was an even sorer spot than usual with Ivy. Apparently he hadn't been exaggerating. "There's always a certain appeal to physical violence for people like you and I, but yes, I think everyone is in agreement."

"Then, no matter what Jenna does in the future, no matter where she goes, no matter who she harasses – "

"A MANIC FORK." Ivy just glared at him, and Eddie sighed. Selina would have gotten it. Talia would have at least _tried_. But Pammy never had the patience. "Mark of Cain. She'll be ignored by anybody who's anybody."

Jervis would have been the logical choice to spread the word, but from what Harvey had described, the plan was a little too complicated to entrust to the Hatter. Jenna Leibowitz had turned out to be the worst kind of groupie, the kind who thought she was a lot smarter than she was, who thought she could be one of _them _by taking their business and letting Harvey nail her. Nimrod.

If she was that desperate for their approval, or even their attention, Ivy had reasoned, then the worst kind of punishment would be to deny her existence. She wasn't at the bottom of their social hierarchy. That would imply that she was a _part_ of their society. She wasn't even on the chart. Hugo had no idea how lucky he was until this happened.

The only concern was that Jenna would become so starved for attention, any kind of attention, that even suffering a beating from a Rogue was preferable to nothing at all.

"I'm not worried about people like _you_, to be honest, Nygma," Ivy said.

Oh, _that_ sounded like a compliment.

"But I don't know that people like Croc can hold their temper if she does something criminally stupid."

"I don't know that he can either," Eddie said, "but that's your problem, Ivy. Not mine."

Ivy glared at him.

"If she does something particularly obnoxious," he added, "would you be opposed to some kind of indirect retribution? Something that can't be linked to one of us?"

"Well, she's paranoid, delusional, and obsessed with us," Ivy replied, "so she'd probably assume we're responsible for anything bad that happens to her." She paused and then smiled. "Actually, it might make her loonier than ever. That would be fun."

"Mm-hm," Eddie said. "Mind if I get back to my table? Echo really isn't housebroken yet."

"Just a moment," Ivy said quickly. She got up from her chair, came around the desk, and perched on the edge. Her crossed legs were just an inch or two from his. Instinctively he shifted back in his seat. "I wouldn't trust this message with Harvey or Jervis or anyone. Everyone will hear it direct from me. You're heard about Harley."

"She's here, I assume," Eddie answered. "Breaking her out of Arkham with a RECORD TOUR, a court order? I hope you at least bribed the judge. Ozzie would have. Please tell me you didn't win your case on the _merits_."

"Are you under the impression that I have anything in common with the Penguin?" Ivy snapped.

Eddie adjusted the brim of his hat with one finger that, not coincidentally, pointed straight up. "I've heard Oswald 'haunts' the living quarters above the Lounge. Whatever it is you've done to him, Ivy, I'll wager you two have a _lot_ in common now."

Ivy's glare had turned outright glacial, but Eddie didn't really notice. "And what did the man from Brooklyn say when he took a cruise to Egypt but got off in Greece instead? 'That wasn't da Nile.' You went back into the judicial system and played by the _rules_? Ivy, people will think you're going white hat on us." He rubbed his chin and chortled. "That might not be such a bad idea, actually. The Bat might have a stroke if he had to work together with Gotham's newest protector, QUENCH HELL POORLY – Queen Chlorophyll!"

Before he quite knew what had happened, Ivy's hand was wrapped around his necktie.

"I'll ignore that remark," Ivy hissed, leaning forward.

"_This_ is ignoring?" Eddie asked, and she yanked his tie down a little.

"Harley is upstairs right now," Ivy went on. "I'm purging her system of all the medications they pumped into her at Arkham with a healthy, organic herbal cocktail. I'm also using some – special herbs to fix her other issues."

"Ivy, it's getting a little tight."

Ivy's eyes bored into his. "Soon she's going to be all better, and then she'll be back among us. When that happens, you are _NOT_ to bring up the night Joker died, or the months Harley has spent in Arkham. _EVER._ Her mental state is still fragile, and I won't have you or anyone else setting her off. Are we clear?"

"Is this how you win repeat customers?"

"_Edward_. This is Harley's future I'm talking about. I won't let anything interfere, not even the prospect of losing the club. If you can't be circumspect around Harley, then drink somewhere else."

Nygma didn't answer at first. He probably shouldn't have poked the tiger lily, but he wasn't happy to be here. Just because the Rydbergii appeared safe to drink in, just because Ivy was working for tips, it didn't mean that he _enjoyed_ giving her his business.

Having pissed her off royally, however, Eddie could also see that she was being unusually rational. This wasn't Ivy's typical hysterical shrieking. This was Ivy being intense and serious. His eardrums should have been bleeding by now.

Hm. Clayface bought her potpourri, and she was still screaming about it three days later. Harvey had a plastic table brought to the Iceberg, and she absolutely lost it. But any threat to Ivy's legal custody of Harley? Suddenly she learns how to turn the tap from hot to cold?

The Joker was out of the picture and Ivy finally had Harley all to herself . . . and neither her fellow Rogues nor the legal system were going to jeopardize that. It was almost cute, if she wasn't trying to make his blood run cold.

Or if she wasn't still tugging on the tie.

"Will you _let go_ of my clothes and calm down, Ivy?" Eddie asked, being equally serious now.

Ivy waited a moment before she let go of his tie in a huff and leaned back.

"If it's for Harley's welfare," he continued as he adjusted the neckwear, "then of course I'll hold my tongue around her."

"Good," Ivy said, looking slightly mollified. "Fine, then go back to the new toy. First drink is on the house."

Giving him something for _free_? Maybe this was the new Poison Ivy.

Maybe Harley had a chance – unless she decided she wanted to leave. Then she was probably screwed.

* * *

It had been some time since Ivy updated her wardrobe. Before, she just didn't have the time for shopping. And since her discovery that she was no longer within shouting distance of her ideal weight, it had become much more difficult. She couldn't exactly blend in with a crowd. If someone saw her at Bloomingdale's and took a picture . . .

She dreaded the Gotham Post headlines. POISON IVY BUYS NEW WARDROBE TO ACCOMMODATE NEW FAT ASS.

Ivy tried not to look at herself in the mirror, but that was why she was standing in front of it, wasn't she? She couldn't go shopping, and she couldn't just go on wearing the same things. She still fit into her old clothes, but that didn't mean she _looked_ like she fit into them.

Desperate, she'd gone to an unlikely source. She paid Kittlemeier an exorbitant sum to "let out" some of her outfits. He had thought it strange, but again, "exorbitant sum".

She was modeling one of her skirts in the mirror now. Her rear end didn't look like it was going to split the fabric any longer.

It still looked fat.

Ivy sighed in resignation. She'd gone through her entire wardrobe and come across a couple old outfits that she hadn't worn on a caper in years. Trying them on had led to the gruesome discovery that she had not gained ten or fifteen pounds over the past year. She had gained twenty or twenty-five over the past several. Evidently over time her body had picked up a pound here and a pound there.

She had an exercise bike, of all things, dragged up to her rooms, and she'd begun taking better care of her complexion and hair. But Ivy still felt unattractive and overweight, and she was always tired.

Especially since she moved Harley in three weeks ago.

Harley's situation had been a little more problematic than Oswald's. She hadn't actually been _trying_ to alter his memories. It had just happened. She couldn't be so laissez-faire with Harley, though.

Ivy had kept Harley's system constantly drenched with pheromones from the moment she arrived. The theory was that Harley would be so eager to please her, for such an extended length of time, that her hopelessly hypnotized mind would do anything Ivy asked. Including forgetting the past and filling in whatever details she was given. So Ivy had sat next to Harley's bed for hours each day, whispering a new version of the last year into her ear.

Plus, Ivy hoped that Harley's brain would _want_ to forget the Joker's death. That when given the opening, it would run right through.

The problem was that Ivy had no idea if and when to stop the treatment. Maybe Harley was cured even now. Or maybe the Joker was still lurking in a corner of her mind. She had no way of knowing, without simply cutting the flow of pheromones.

That was another problem, meanwhile. Ivy had been taking the special herbs that boosted her powers daily. She was wringing the pheromones out of her body like she was a sponge, then using the herbs to replenish the supply. But the scary witch lady proprietor of the magic store had warned her months ago that abusing the herbs could burn her powers out permanently. What if Ivy lost the ability before Harley was all better?

And there was a third problem. Oswald was now permanently in love with Ivy. She didn't know how to undo that if she had even wanted to.

What if Harley came out of her chemically-induced hypnosis the same way?

That possibility terrified Ivy as much as not being able to cure her in the first place. If Harley "woke up" madly in love with her, then Ivy would have unintentionally destroyed the one real friendship she still had, replacing it with something fake and forced.

Then she'd really be alone. She'd keep Harley with her, of course, but every loving look would be like a hot poker. The Joker would have won after all.

_Why hadn't she just stopped Harley from killing him?!_

Ivy froze. Whoa. Where the fuck had _that_ come from?

At any rate, Ivy hadn't touched Harley once since she came. Hopefully a lack of affectionate physical contact would prevent emotional attachment. And she'd firmly emphasized throughout the rewrite of Harley's memories that their relationship was as it always had been. Maybe even that Ivy hadn't been supportive _enough _after Joker died.

Maybe it would work out right.

_Sure, like everything else had? _

Ivy flinched, then looked at the clock. It was time for another treatment. She quickly removed the skirt in favor of baggy pants (ulgh), then went to Harley's room.

With Harley's unmade, empty bed in it.

Ivy's stomach dropped. Where _was_ she?

First she checked the front door, half-expecting to find it wide open. But Harley had not apparently fled the building in a headlong rush.

After that it took Ivy two minutes of frantic searching to find Harley in the solarium. Eventually the entire roof would be a living carpet of flora, but for now the plants were concentrated in one large room with plenty of sunlight. Oswald was there, like he always was at this hour, watering the babies.

Harley just stood there, watching him.

"Harley?" Ivy asked quietly.

She was still too thin, Ivy thought, as she turned around. Then Harley beamed at her.

"Heya, Red," she said cheerfully, skipping over. She leaned close to Ivy. "Geez, Red, why didn't you _paint_ him green while you were at it?"

"You're awake," Ivy said, breathless. She didn't seem like she was in love. She seemed – normal. Something Ivy had once lost hope of.

"Well, duh, Red."

"And we're still friends?"

Harley looked at her strangely. "Gee, I don't know if I can ever forgive you for getting me out of Dr. Jerry's House of Fun and letting me move in, Red. But just this once, okay?"

Ivy stared at her. "Could you give me a moment, Harl?"

"Sure, I'll just keep the bird-shaped vegetable company."

Leaving the solarium, Ivy went into a nearby bathroom and closed the door. Then she burst into tears.

Gaia, it had worked. Harley was herself again. It had gone right. After years of losses, Ivy had finally won at something.

_Fuck, _that felt good!

There was a hesitant tap at the door. "Red?" Harley asked. "Is everything all right?"

Ivy snatched a towel and wiped hurriedly at her eyes. "Just a second, Harl," she said.

When she came back out, Harley clearly was at a loss. "Were you just – crying?"

"No, no, I just . . . got a little pollen in my eyes," Ivy lied poorly.

"I never see you cry."

"I'm sure you've seen me cry before."

"You once said that you never cry any more." Harley looked down. "You said that I taught you how to deal with disappointment."

Ivy swallowed. She vaguely remembered saying something like that – the eleventh or twelfth time Harley ran back to Joker as if he'd banged on a triangle and screamed "Dinner!"

"I'm just glad you're feeling better, that's all," Ivy said. "You haven't been yourself lately."

"Well, I couldn't stay in that bed forever," Harley replied. "You had a lot to do with that, you know, after Puddin' – well, _you know_."

She fought down the urge to throw up. Harley had _no _idea how true that statement was, and Ivy would do whatever it took to keep it that way.

"And to be honest, I'm kinda bored," Harley added. "I miss my sugar rush too."

Ivy bit her lip. She had forgotten to buy the groceries that Harley liked. She'd send someone – no, she had a better idea. "I haven't really shopped lately, Harl," she said, as if she ever bought food herself any more.

"I noticed. I couldn't find Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs anywhere. What the heck is Kashi anyway, Red?"

It was always a mystery to Ivy how Harley's teeth had survived both the Joker and a ten-year-old's diet. "If you feel up to it, we could go to the store together?"

"Outside? Oh, boy, Red! I swear, your plants might get all the sunlight they need, but I've been feelin' like a mushroom!" Harley bounced off. "Let's see, I'm gonna need popcorn and graham crackers and chocolate and . . . "

Ivy watched her disappear. _That_ was her best friend in the world.

_And I want more._

To be concluded . . .


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

"Oh, Red!" Harley blubbered. "He had a brain tumor all along!"

Ivy sighed. "If brain tumors turn men into brilliant gardeners who know the scientific name of every wildflower in America, then I say we should spend less money on cancer research." She ate another kernel of popcorn.

They were having a "Girls' Night In", perhaps the fifth or sixth in the two weeks since Harley had woken up. Typically it involved sappy romances. Although it had not escaped Ivy that they were typically tragic love stories where the man died, like "Dying Young" or tonight's installment, "Phenomenon".

Ivy pretended to enjoy them a _little_ bit. She couldn't even conceptualize the idea of a woman grieving over the death of a man. If Kyra Sedgwick had been in the room, Ivy would have cheerfully throttled her.

Still, she made the effort for Harley. As far as Ivy could tell, she was almost completely normal. She was now prone to occasional fits of depression, but Harley tended to lift herself out of them.

She also refused to enter the back alley where the Joker had "died". Ivy had thoughtfully "persuaded" Harley's mind that the Joker was murdered behind the Lounge and not in it. It had occurred to her that Harley might never enter the Lounge itself if she knew it was the place where Puddin' had expired. And Ivy very much wanted Harley's help running the Rydbergii.

Most important of all, Harley had given no sign that she harbored any romantic feelings for Ivy at all. Okay, great, the plan had worked.

Ivy wondered if it had worked _too_ well. What if, in making sure that her pheromones didn't make Harley fall in love with her, Ivy had crushed any feelings that still lingered?

Because Harley sure as hell wasn't watching "Thelma and Louise".

Ivy wasn't resting all her hopes on getting Harley into bed. They'd been friends for years after _that one time_, and she hadn't pined away for Harley at all.

She told herself that every time she thought about taking the relationship from friendship to flirtation – and turned into a shrinking violet.

There was so much risk involved. If Ivy made a pass at Harley and was rejected, it might cripple their friendship. And Ivy had _no_ intention of jeopardizing the current arrangement.

_You're even cowardly with yourself._

Ivy winced. That wasn't the only reason she hadn't asked Harley out. It wasn't even the main reason. The real problem was that Ivy was no longer certain that she was the kind of woman Harley would be attracted to. This had never been a problem for her before. If she wanted someone, they were hers. No one would refuse a goddess in all her divine glory.

But for weeks she had endured a crisis of self-confidence about her looks. Ivy had never agonized about another person, not even in high school when she frankly hadn't cared about dating. This was something completely new for her, and she didn't like it one little bit.

So they would just stay friends. She didn't need Harley to love her back.

But if Harley never loved her, who would?

"Who wants ice cream?" Harley asked brightly, unaware of the thoughts running through Ivy's mind.

Ivy suppressed a sigh. She didn't even want to _know_ how much her caloric intake had increased by after Harley woke up.

* * *

As Harley absently tapped at the display of her iPod with one finger until the next Kelly Clarkson song came on, it occurred to her that she had no idea where Red went.

Ever since Harley had gotten out of Arkham, she'd spent almost every waking moment with Ivy. Red was still pretending to be a reformed nightclub owner – and wouldn't the Bat be surprised when the sham was up! That meant Ivy wasn't constantly occupied with her next brilliant scheme. Not only that, but because they were living above the Lounge instead of inside Robinson Park, there were nowhere near the same number of plants, and that meant Red wasn't doing much experimenting or gardening either.

It blew Harley's mind a little bit as she got up to find Red. She'd always been somewhat convinced that the solo planning sessions and the plant mutating gave Ivy the chance to be away from her occasionally. Red had always been an impatient person, and sometimes Harley exhausted the little patience she did have.

And yet they were together every day. It was strange. Nice, but strange.

She thought, as she peeked into the solarium, that Red might be trying to monitor her. After all, Harley had spent weeks in a straitjacket after she heard about – eh, she didn't like to think about it. It was hazy and unpleasant.

Anyway, after the event that Harley chose not to think about, and the aforementioned "Weeks in a Straitjacket", she'd followed that one up with her second Top-40 hit, "Never Gonna Get Out of Bed Again". And Ivy got to watch and wonder when it would end.

No wonder Red was always around. She was probably afraid of a relapse. Harley would have to tell her to stop worrying. It was okay if she wanted to grow a Whomping Willow or something while Harley watched Disney Afternoon.

Of course, she'd have to find Red first.

Turning off the iPod so that she could hear better, Harley noticed an odd noise coming from one floor below. It sounded like a herd of angry lizards. Curious, she went to check it out.

The angry lizards turned out to be Ivy furiously pumping away at a stationary exercise bike. Harley watched her, mystified. Since when did Ivy _exercise?_ Okay, she'd put on a few pounds since the last time Harley saw her, but it certainly wasn't hurtin' her any.

Ivy slowed to a halt while Harley watched from the doorway. Sighing, she got off the bike. Still breathing heavily, she grabbed a towel and started drying herself off. There was a sheen all over her body because of the sweat, and the green exercise tights blended in so well with Ivy's green skin that it almost looked like she wasn't wearing anything at –

Harley gasped.

* * *

_I used to be special. When did I become so ordinary?_

Ivy's mind was filled with gloomy thoughts like that as she climbed off her exercise bike and used a towel to mop the sweat from her brow. It was true, she _was_ ordinary. Goddesses emerged perfect from the ocean, and stayed that way forever. Goddesses didn't spend forty minutes exercising like every other woman. Goddesses didn't downgrade their goals from "lose twenty pounds" to "lose five pounds and keep them off".

At this rate, she'd be a different kind of goddess – a "mother goddess", like those prehistoric statues of obese women.

Maybe she should just stop calling herself "Poison Ivy". Special people gave themselves names like that. She was just "Pamela Isley" now. Everyone used to call her Pamela. She could get used to it again.

Pamela. Ugh. Maybe it wasn't too pathetic to cling to the Ivy.

Meanwhile, in yet another sign of how ashamed of her body Ivy had become, she had ordered three sets of exercise clothes through a _catalog_. She had thrown in the towel on shopping for outfits in public. Ivy tried not to look at her body in the mirror out of the corner of her eye. A midriff-baring spandex top and tight green shorts. What had she been _thinking_?

Ivy was too tired for introspection. She concentrated on catching her breath as she leaned against the bike with one hand and used the other hand to towel off the exposed skin below her neck.

"Um . . . uh . . ."

Spinning to the right, Ivy was mortified to see Harley standing in the doorway.

"I was wondering what the noise was," Harley finally said. "I didn't realize – "

Ivy couldn't say anything. She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks. It had been embarrassing when Oswald saw her naked weeks ago. Harley seeing her like this was humiliating. Sweaty, smelly, her hair a mess, her clothes sadly leaving nothing to the imagination – Ivy's fantasies of a future together wailed hopelessly and fled.

"I mean, wow," Harley went on. "You're really looking great, Red."

She felt _that_ like a blow to the gut. The fat, flabby gut. "You don't need to be sarcastic, Harl," Ivy said bitterly. "I know what I look like."

Harley actually _smiled_ at her. "Sure, Red, everyone knows _you_ know what you look like. 'No man can resist me'? Ring any bells?" And then she stuck her butt out, ran her hands down her hips, and did a little _shimmy_.

Ivy flinched. _Clearly_ her pheromones had not made Harley love her. If they had, Harley wouldn't have said something so cruel to her. "Yes, ironic, isn't it?" Ivy kept her upper body hidden behind the towel, feeling the shame fill her body. "A faultless, perfect beauty for years, and now I can't even get my figure back if I _try_."

"What do you mean, back? It's still right there!"

"Sure, underneath all the cellulite."

"Come on, Red, you're being silly," Harley said. "I said you look great, and – "

"You're just saying that."

"I WOULD just say it, cause that's what you do when your perfect size 8 friend says 'I hate my thighs', but Red, c'mon, mirror, check it out, you do look great."

"Please, Harley!" Ivy snapped, glaring at her. "You don't have to spare my feelings, I can see for myself what I've turned into!"

"I am NOT trying to spare your feelings!" Harley burst out, and Ivy was so startled that she dropped the towel. "What the heck is _wrong_ with you?! Since when have you been anorexic? I hate to break this to you, but you've never exactly been 'skinny'."

"Yes, I can see _now_ that you're not trying to spare my feelings."

"Heavens to Mergatroid, you're not listening to me, you never do! Just stand there and shut _up_, okay?!"

Ivy just stared.

Harley sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. "Red, you are not, nor have you ever been fat. Jeez, we both know that _I'm_ skinny, and I wish I had your body. There's not much point wearing a form-fitting outfit if there ain't anything to show for it! Do you know how many women would kill to have curves like yours?"

"But – "

"I am talking, okay? The corpse still has the floor!"

The what?

"Is the word _voluptuous_ not in your dictionary, Ivy? You've got big breasts, big hips, and a round, wonderful ass. That's how your body works, that's where the weight goes, and yeah, if you're not careful then you will be fat. But that hasn't happened yet. Right now you're just a woman with incredible curves."

Harley actually looked _aggravated_, the way Ivy felt when she was trying to explain something and Harley was being particularly dense. Which, apparently, Ivy was now guilty of. Boy, had the tables been turned. "Wait, so you're saying I still look good?"

"You really don't get it, do you?" Harley asked, looking bewildered. "This isn't just some dumb 'I hate my hips' conversation. You seriously don't know you're smoking hot?! If anybody else had walked in here the same time I did, they would have had the exact same reaction I did. Cuz, um, you were working out, and . . . you know."

"Um, no, I don't think I do."

"WORKING OUT, you don't get that you . . . y'know." Harley unhelpfully waved her hand up and down. Then she sighed, evidently reading the lack of comprehension on Ivy's face.

"Well first, you were standing there in those tights, and you looked kinda shiny with that little film of sweat ya got goin'. Not too much, not too little, and there's the . . . y'know, breathing."

"Breathing," Ivy said dully.

"Yeah! Y'know, _breathing_? _Heavily? _'Cause, you know, _they're_ a little bigger than they used to be."

Again, Harley waved her hand up and down — and now it made sense.

Ivy looked down at her chest. "Oh. You, I mean – this looks _good_? Because I feel like a sweaty, stinky mess with bad hair." Then she looked back up and saw that Harley's eyes were now fixed on something behind Ivy and over her shoulder. It seemed somehow familiar, like –

Like when she caught men staring at her.

Gaia, Harley had been looking at her breasts.

Suddenly Ivy felt warm all over. Harley had tried telling her all this time, and all Ivy really needed was to catch Harley checking her out. "So," she said. She bent over and picked up her towel. "You think I look good?"

"Yeah," Harley muttered, looking off to the right now. "Gee, I think Powerpuff Girls is on now. I should - "

"Really good?" Ivy asked, coming closer as she wiped her chest with the towel, even though she really didn't need to.

"Mm-hm." Harley took a step back. "You've always been beautiful, Red," she added shyly.

Ivy smiled at her. "Beautiful like this?" she asked, and imitated the shimmy Harley had made earlier.

Harley gulped. "Yeah, like that."

Wow. Suddenly this felt really, really _right_. "Harl, why don't the two of us go out tonight?"

"Out?" Harley asked. There was only a few inches between them, and her cheeks were flaming red.

"Yeah, you know, out. Of the building. Drinks, dinner, maybe a movie or something?"

"You mean, like a date?"

Ivy dragged a finger down Harley's arm, and she squeaked. "Yes, exactly like a date, Harley."

"Well – "

"Please, Harley. Pretty please."

Harley finally broke down. "I would _love_ to go on a date with you, Red."

Ivy beamed.

"Ooh!" Harley suddenly said. "And we can go shopping first!"

"Shopping?" Ivy asked nervously, not liking the sudden turn of events.

"Red, c'mon, the only things in my drawers are shorts and T-shirts. Can't imagine why you picked _those_," Harley said cheekily. "I need something nice for tonight!"

"Oh," Ivy said. They could go clothes shopping for Harley, that was all right. As long as –

"And we can get something for you too."

Damn it.

"Maybe stop at Victoria's Secret, too," Harley added.

Ivy almost choked on her own saliva.

* * *

"I can't believe people are staring at us," Harley griped. "It's the twenty-first century!" She glared at the next table over. "Yeah, we're two women and we're on a date. Why dontcha take a picture, it'll last longer?!"

"Harley, they're staring because they know who I am," Ivy told her. "Which means they've probably figured out who you are too."

"How would they know who – never mind."

It really was irritating, Ivy thought, that certain shades of light made her skin look green. It had drawn plenty of looks at Macy's (and at the same time, nowhere near enough help from salespeople). And people continued giving them a wide berth in Victoria's Secret.

At least they didn't have to worry about interruptions while they modeled clothes for each other.

Still, Ivy had returned home with new concerns. Okay, she was feeling better about her body. Harley had encouraged her to purchase the tight, cleavage-baring dress she was wearing tonight. Ivy had looked over her shoulder in the mirror, shook her head, and said, "Everyone is going to know exactly how big my rear end is."

"Red, haven't you ever heard of Kim Kardashian?"

"Is she a designer?"

Harley had snorted. "Uh, no - just trust me, your look is popular right now."

And if Ivy had needed more assurance that Harley was physically attracted to her, it had come when Harley picked out twelve sets of lingerie, not a one in green, and insisted she try them all on. And then Harley insisted on seeing how she looked in them.

But why was she physically attracted to her _now_? For two weeks Harley had behaved as if they were purely platonic friends, and suddenly after one workout session, they were an item? Not only that, but when Ivy had asked Harley out, she'd been hesitant, even nervous at first. But within six hours Harley was flirting with her nonstop, leaping headlong into a relationship.

Ivy had started to consider the possibility that she really had greened Harley into loving her, but it had lain dormant inside of her, waiting for something to prime the pump. Take one Harley, add sweaty Ivy in tights, and stir. Instant lust.

She had liked it better when she thought she was fat.

"Red?"

Ivy blinked. "Yes, Harl?"

"Kinda asked you a question there."

"I'm sorry, I was thinking. What was it?"

"How long have you wanted to ask me out?" Harley ducked her head shyly. "Was it a spur of the moment thing today, or did you want to before?"

Ivy didn't answer at first. There were degrees of truthfulness here. "Do you remember that one getaway?" she finally asked, going for full disclosure. "The one where things got a little _passionate_ afterwards?"

Harley looked blank. "Huh?"

"You know," Ivy grumbled. "We got away from the Bat one time? We were all over each other by the time we got back to the hideout!"

Instead of answering, Harley muttered something about "Winona Ryder's friends".

"What?"

"Nothing! Um, not really, no," she admitted.

Ivy was very disappointed to hear that Harley had forgotten a moment that she cherished, but she pushed on. "It was years ago, Harley. I think – I've probably wanted to ask you out ever since."

She'd dated Harvey off and on for much of that time, but as soon as she said it, Ivy realized it was true.

"So why did you wait so long?" Harley asked.

Ivy gave her a flat stare. "Uh, you were _seeing_ somebody?"

"No, I mean, yeah, right, but what about after? We've been hanging out together for weeks," Harley pointed out.

Full disclosure suddenly became less of an option. Ivy couldn't exactly say, _I wanted to make sure that greening you for weeks didn't turn you into my love slave._ And she wasn't keen on saying, _I was scared you would say no._ So she split the difference instead. "Okay, more Memory Lane then. Harley, do you remember that Scottish festival we went to?"

Harley winced. "Please, don't bring that up. Do _you_ remember? Bagpipes? The words out of your mouth were 'One big bruise'!"

"Oh," Ivy said. Jumping ahead then. "Well, I've been taking these herbal supplements that I bought from a woman at the Games, and as a result my powers have become a lot stronger."

"How much stronger?"

"Strong enough that I can green girls," Ivy admitted.

Harley stared at her. "No _shit!_"

"Harley, could we stop drawing attention to ourselves please?"

"This from the green girl?"

Ivy scowled at her.

"Sorry, _alabaster_. So you can . . . wait. Does that mean you could green _me_?" Harley squeaked.

Ivy shrank back in her seat. "Ye-es," she said reluctantly.

"And I'd be head over heels in love with you?"

"Maybe," Ivy told her.

"What do you mean, _maybe_? I ain't exactly what they call transgendered, Red."

Ivy leaned forward. "I also learned that my powers aren't gender-based," she said quietly. "They affect people differently based on their _sexual orientation_."

Harley gaped at her. "So fancy boys – "

"React the same way as straight girls," Ivy finished for her. "Instant best friend forever."

"Huh," Harley said. "So why am I a 'maybe'?"

Ivy looked at her in disbelief. "It's not like you've been sticking with one gender all this time, Harl."

"Oh," Harley said. "So you were afraid of greening me accidentally?"

Ivy nodded vigorously. "Harley, I was _terrified_ of doing just that. I couldn't bear it if you went out with me and didn't really want to."

Harley looked down at her hands. "Oh. Wow. You – you don't think I've been greened and I don't know it, do ya?"

Ivy sucked in a breath. "Well . . . before they checked you into Arkham the last time, had you _ever_ been interested in me before?"

Harley flushed. For a minute she didn't speak. "Once or twice, yeah. Maybe three. Or four."

"Then," Ivy said, feeling a bit relieved, "I don't think it matters even if you _are_. Although for the record, I don't really think you are anyway."

Harley didn't say anything, but the redness in her cheeks receded.

"So," Ivy went on, dabbing at the corner of her lip with a napkin, "where would you like to go next?"

"I'm kinda tired, Red," Harley said. "Do you think we could go home?"

Disappointment, because their night out was ending, warred with pleasure that Harley was already calling Ivy's apartments "home". Pleasure won. "Of course, Harley. You haven't been out much."

Harley nodded and looked up. "And, um, your bed looks a lot comfier than mine. Maybe we could, I don't know, share tonight?"

Ivy felt her eyes growing wide.

"And then we could see what happens," Harley added a little _too_ innocently.

"_Waiter!_"

* * *

"Come in, come in," Ivy said irritably. She swiftly shut the office door behind Selina. "I'm sure my customers are wondering why we're speaking behind closed doors, but they can't know. Hopefully they'll think this is about how you scratched up my bar several nights ago. Which, by the way, I _am_ displeased about. I realize that Gotham Post reporter was a revolting little man, and that you were overjoyed to learn he was fired, but - "

"Ivy, can we get on with why you brought me up here?" Selina asked coldly. "I don't want to talk about the Post, I don't want to talk about your bar, and I _certainly_ don't want to talk about that night."

Ivy shrugged and sat behind her desk. "Yes, well. Harley asked me to do something." She grimaced. "No, Harley _insisted_ that I do something."

"I guess she's doing better? I saw the Cindy Adams column in the paper last week - the two of you at a restaurant, dressed to kill."

"Yes, she's fine," Ivy said through her teeth. She had been extremely unhappy about the press coverage. She had always loathed the fact that Rogues fantasized about her and Harley for years, and now the rest of Gotham's worthless male gender was doing it! "She wanted me to tell you something."

"She had to _insist_ that you tell me something?" Selina asked. "She can do that now?"

Ivy glared at her.

Selina just smiled naughtily and sat down. "This I have to hear."

"I'm certain," Ivy grumbled. "Since you saw the item in the paper, I'm sure you've guessed that Harley and I are in a relationship now."

Selina nodded and waited.

"I am - happier, Selina," Ivy muttered. She looked down. "Happier than I can remember being in a very, _very _long time. I'm happier because of her. And you - you helped. You helped make it happen." Her mouth twisted like she'd eaten something rancid. "Perhaps you're _why_ it happened."

Ivy's head came back up and she looked Selina in the eye, challenging her to say something. "Thank you," she said woodenly, almost as if she was reading from a script. She probably was. "I will never be able to repay you."

Selina blinked several times. "Whoa," she finally said.

"There, I said it," Ivy retorted. "I kept my promise. I hope she'll be happy now. But this is your one chance if you want to rub it in."

"No, Ivy, you're welcome. Seriously," Selina replied. "I'm just glad that Harley isn't turning into her old boyfriend after all."

"So am I," Ivy murmured. "He's dead and gone."

* * *

Harley looked up at the closed door to Red's office. Red never, ever mentioned Selina's name any more. She wondered why she wanted to talk to Selina in private.

Musta have been about Selina scratching up the bar.

* * *

"So, Victor, heard the latest?"

Victor sighed. "Yes, Harley. There was an elephant on stage. It didn't disappear. There is a betting pool on how long Zatanna has to live."

"Oh," Harley said, pouting. Typical Victor, the ol' buzzkill. "Did you place your wager?"

"Tomorrow," he said heavily. "I will place my wager tomorrow. Tonight I will mourn."

Harley sincerely doubted he was talking about Little Miss Sparkly-poo, which meant that . . . "Today's the anniversary, huh?" she asked sympathetically.

Victor nodded.

She supposed he was entitled to be depressed tonight. You'd mark the occasion too if you were in an explosion where your wife died and your own body became unable to survive above-zero temperatures.

"Next drink is on me, okay?" Harley said. She was watching the bar while Red took care of some business upstairs.

Victor looked at her. Instead of speaking, he suddenly grabbed her by the wrist.

"Hey!"

"Tell me," Victor said. "How did you do it? Tell me how you were able to move on!"

"Look, um, Mr. Fries, I realize you're having a Really Bad Day anniversary, but you're hurting my arm."

"We have so much in common!" Victor replied hoarsely. "We both loved someone with abandon! And we were forced to watch them die in front of us! But your Joker only died last year! How can you be happy when I'm still so miserable all these years later?"

"I didn't - I mean I wasn't - "

"I didn't even see her last breath!" Victor went on, anguished. "But you, he died in your arms! You were covered in his blood! _I need to know how you can live after that!_"

Harley stared at him, transfixed. What the heck was he saying? Harley had been in Arkham the night Puddin' died! If she had seen those DEMON guys cut him up, she was pretty freaking sure she'd remember it!

_Cut him up, cut him up good._

She gasped and lurched backwards so fast that her rear end hit the wall. Harley closed her eyes, but she could still see - _there was so much blood!_

And Puddin' had died, he was dead, he was cut to pieces, it was the DEMON guys, they killed her Mistah J because -

_Because she told them to!_

* * *

Ivy burst out of her office when Harley started screaming. _What the FUCK?_

"_No, NO! Puddin! I'm so SORRY!!"_

Her knees almost gave way underneath her. _Gaia, no, she wasn't supposed to be able to remember that!_

She bolted for the bar. All other noises in the Lounge had stopped. All Ivy could hear was the terrified, heartbroken cries coming from her girlfriend.

Ivy braked to a stop when she saw her. Harley was wailing on the floor, staring straight at the very spot where the Joker had died. She was lying on her side, curled into the fetal position, her arms around her knees.

And Mr. Freeze was standing over her, looking like he had no idea what to do.

A sudden jolt of rage beat back some of Ivy's panic. She stormed towards Victor. "What did you say, Victor?! _What did you say to her?!_"

Victor's head snapped up to look at her. "Ivy," he said, darting his eyes left and right like a sniveling rodent. "I don't know what - I only asked her how she was able to move on after the Joker died - tonight is the night that Nora - "

Ivy lost what little control she had left. "I _told_ you never to mention that night to her! _Ever!_ What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

"Ivy - "

"Get out," she growled. "You're banned from the Rydbergii."

"But - "

"_Three months!_ _Six_ if you don't get out of my club right now! And if you say one more word - just one more word! - then I'll make sure you're the second person cut to pieces at the Lounge!"

Victor opened his mouth, then closed it. Turning away, he fled the building with as much dignity as he could muster.

Fuck dignity. Ivy was by Harley's side in an instant. "Harley, shh, be quiet, it's going to be all right," she said.

"He's dead, he's dead, I killed him, and _you let me do it!!" _Harley shrieked.

Then Harley slapped her.

Ivy's flinch had very little to do with the blow.

There was only one way she was going to stop this. She didn't particularly _want_ to reveal that her pheromones affected women now, especially in front of her entire staff, but there was only one woman that mattered at that moment.

So she doused Harley with pheromones, trying to console her until her cries died down.

When Harley was practically comatose, Ivy stood up and turned around. Everyone was staring at her. "In case I haven't made myself clear to anyone," she said loudly, "anybody who makes Harley cry will be banned for three months! Anybody who brings up the night Joker died will be banned for six! And anybody who hurts her will _really_ suffer!!"

She looked back at Harley, who just lay there sightlessly, her thumb loosely in her mouth.

_And I hurt her the most, so I get to suffer the most._

* * *

When Harley was finally back in their bed, Ivy sat on the bed next to her and thought about what she'd learned that night.

First, evidently there were some memories so traumatic that not even herbal-augmented pheromones could erase them completely.

And second, no matter how many precautions she took, there was no guarantee this wouldn't happen again. Someone else might say something monumentally stupid. Harley could see something on the television, or more likely the Internet. She could have a nightmare.

Even with Ivy by her side, sooner or later Harley might have another meltdown. Without Ivy, however, another meltdown might very well destroy her. And _that_ would destroy Ivy.

She couldn't risk either. Harley was an incredibly endangered plant, the last of her species, and a battered, fragile blossom in a harsh environment. She would require constant love and attention until the end of her days. And Ivy would have to do anything, make any sacrifice, to see to it.

Because she was so beautiful when she bloomed.

Ivy didn't think about what her employees would do tomorrow, or what the rumor mill would say. She didn't even undress. She just kicked off her shoes, slipped into bed next to Harley, and lay next to her.

_It's my mess, and I'll clean it up._

It was easier to say that, than to admit that she loved her.

* * *

The next day, almost half of Ivy's staff quit.

Having learned that women were no longer immune to her powers, her employees had divided themselves into three groups. There were the women who wouldn't work for Ivy period, the women who were only staying on because they were afraid Ivy would green them if they tried to quit, and the women who were – for now - staying on anyway.

Ivy had found them all waiting for her when she came downstairs. The first group immediately tendered their resignations. When the second group saw that Ivy's attempts to change the quitters' minds had _not_ included pheromones, they left as well.

The only saving grace was that the women with the most seniority, such as Raven and Dove, were the ones who didn't leave. They were simply making too much in tips and gratuities to leave just when business had picked up. But that didn't change the fact that the Rydbergii had become severely understaffed.

"I might have to close the Lounge for a couple days while I find replacements," Ivy told Harley afterwards. She was relieved that Harley appeared to have no memory of the previous night's events, but it didn't alleviate the guilt.

"It's too bad that you can't get your plants to do their jobs," Harley said. "You know, the walking shrubs and all that. But not being able to write or speak would be a problem for a waitress."

"Yes, yes," Ivy muttered. They could understand the English language well enough, but –

Ivy sat up straighter. "Harley, you're a genius!"

"I am?" Harley said doubtfully. "I don't think it takes a rocket scientist to figure out that a shrub can't take your order."

"No, but they can certainly take your money."

* * *

Raven, Jonathan Crane had discovered some time ago, had a truly delightful scream. Several months prior he had been looking for a female test subject for a gender-based fear toxin. A serendipitous encounter involving the hostess and a stray lizard had inspired him to select her.

He never did get to use it on her, though. Instead, Crane somehow found himself alone with her in the basement, as he made her scream with something more pleasant for her than fear. It was surprisingly enjoyable.

Those surreptitious meetings below the Iceberg had ended when Poison Ivy took over, and they had not been renewed now that the Scarecrow had finally returned to the Rydbergii. Still, it was a nice memory, and he thought of it every time he visited the men's room, seeing as how the entrance was on the way to the basement stairs.

Plus tonight he liked watching Raven's behavior. The word quickly got out regarding Ivy's ability to use her pheromones on women, and the decision of several Lounge employees to quit. Raven had stayed on, but that didn't mean she wasn't giving Ivy a wide berth tonight. He wondered how this might affect her in the long run. Acute paranoia was a definite possibility.

As he entered the men's room, however, all thoughts of Raven vanished as he experienced an unpleasant fright of his own. For Gina, the washroom attendant, appeared to have been transformed into a bush.

Crane stood in the doorway uncertainly. It was probably a matter of time before Ivy installed shrubbery in the bathrooms. Still, he couldn't see why she felt it necessary to put it in _front_ of the sinks.

It made more sense two minutes later when the oversized plant offered him a towel.

He took it awkwardly, wondering if perhaps he had accidentally ingested his newest prototype toxin, and that when he left the men's room, he would find a Lounge populated with giant cacti and rhododendrons. It actually made sense. Pamela was becoming practically inescapable now. How terrifying!

The plant tapped the tip basket with a frond and waited expectantly.

Crane gave it a twenty. If he was lucky, he was imagining that too.

He went back outside, discovered that the Lounge was still full of _Homo sapiens_, and cursed the name Poison Ivy.

* * *

"I need two Savage Sekhments, a Dea Matrona, and a Bountiful Ceres," the waitress told Harley.

"Gotcha," Harley said cheerfully from behind the bar. Red had been less than subtle when she changed the names of many mixed drinks from something "vulgar and demeaning", like the Tight Snatch, to something "appropriately respectful and submissive", typically ancient goddesses. (Although the Wise Ishtar became the Lovely Freyja after Clayface had warned her everyone would think it was a tribute to, horrors, Warren Beatty.) But then she hadn't tried to be subtle.

Red was even trying her hand at a few new drinks. She said a better hangover remedy would be "worth its weight in saffron". So far they'd been worth their weight in "shriveled scrotums" instead, but Red had high hopes for the "Green Gaia". Not exactly the same as performing tests on a new mutant strain of kudzu, but as long as it helped the bottom line.

Harley watched Red out of the corner of one eye as she prepared the drink order. Her ability to interact with customers had improved, now that she'd begun limiting herself to things like "Hello", "How good you could visit tonight", and "Would you like another?" Harley still wasn't clear why Red was so stiff with other people, when they could talk to each other just fine. But then she supposed she was just special to Ivy.

That mattered more to Harley than it would have a year ago, or even two months ago. Before they'd started sleeping together.

Two months ago Harley wouldn't have predicted this. She certainly wouldn't have predicted the sudden, shocking stab of desire she'd felt when she saw Ivy working out that day. Or Ivy picking up on it and practically seducing her on the spot.

Harley smiled. She knew Red was surprised and a little worried when she'd taken their relationship to the next level in less than twenty-four hours. For days afterward Ivy had been a little paranoid, even running a couple blood tests for any sign that Harley was under the influence of pheromones.

But Harley had made a split-second decision that day in Ivy's home gym. Red was like a tidal wave when she wanted something. Once she'd known that Harley was attracted to her, Red would have pursued her relentlessly until she was overwhelmed and said yes. Harley knew that Red would never let her go now that she had Harley all to herself. Why fight it?

Besides, she _had_ wanted Red. Wanted her _badly_ in Victoria's Secret.

It had also felt strange finding herself at the center of her own universe again, after years of orbiting Puddin'. It was so much easier to just find a new star, and let gravity take over. Even if Harley wasn't exactly in love at that point in their courtship, it had felt _right_ giving herself over completely to someone who would take her.

The fact that Ivy was more than appreciative hadn't hurt either.

"Here you go," Harley said, putting the drinks on a tray and passing it back to the waitress. Then she went back to a favorite pastime – watching Red walk away. A lot of people liked seeing that.

Harley, though, enjoyed it for a much different reason.

* * *

"Okay, okay," Ivy said softly as she was caressed by dozens of fronds and roots. "I missed you too. Calm down."

As they reluctantly relinquished their hold on her, Ivy looked around her former home, visible only by moonlight at this very late hour, and felt unaccountably lonely. Robinson Park had been her protectorate for years. She'd tended personally to every form of flora there, from the oldest tree to blades of grass. She hadn't been here in months. She'd missed it. And yet she was lonely.

Harley wasn't here. What other reason could there be?

She sighed and sank down to her knees. "I'm sorry I haven't been here, but I've been very busy," she murmured. "There have been a lot of changes in my life."

That was the understatement of the century. Her extended absence from Robinson Park was merely one outcome of her decision to take over the Iceberg Lounge. That act was the first in a long line of decisions that eventually led her to abandon the life she'd lived here. Her name was Poison Ivy. She thought of herself as Ivy. She expected her customers and her staff to call her Ivy.

But that didn't change the fact that it said "P. Isley, Proprietor" on the door to the Rydbergii. Officially she had resumed using the name Pamela. Her attorneys had informed her that she needed to use her legal name for all her legitimate business dealings, and that from a public relations perspective, people were more likely to believe she was a reformed, honest businesswoman if she abandoned her criminal moniker.

Of course she wasn't reformed, nor was she honest. Revenues from the black market operations she'd stolen from the Penguin were finally up – ironically because of said Penguin. Once she'd stopped greening him into a hopeless daze, Ivy had begun using him as an intermediary between her and the lowlifes she dealt with. They were less intimidated when they didn't have to face her keen and alert gaze, and less likely to take their business elsewhere.

But it was simply vital that she be perceived as having "gone straight". Ivy couldn't risk going to Arkham or prison. Harley had to be kept safe from her traumatic memories, too stubborn to go away forever. And being trapped in a cell by herself was absolutely unacceptable. She'd become _much_ too used to sharing a bed with someone.

"Things have gotten better," she assured them, wishing to put off what she'd really come to say. "That despicable Jenna lost." Ivy still felt an exultant, savage joy in her heart when she thought about it. "Since then it's as if her mind has developed Dutch elm disease. Her attempt at imitating me," she said all too innocently, "was only the beginning. Last we heard, she tried to rob a Zales jewelry store wearing a latex bodysuit and a tail. Unfortunately for her, she was arrested while attempting to flee when the mall security guard ran her down with his Sedgway. I have fifty dollars on her masquerading as Croc. Her leathery skin will serve her nicely." She got such smug satisfaction out of Jenna's newest pathetic failed attempts to get any kind of rise out of her betters.

It was so much nicer than thinking about . . .

"I hope you won't hate me when I tell you this," Ivy said, growing anxious, "but I was forced to abandon my efforts to forcibly stop those who would harm you. The lumberyards, the refineries, the paper mills – I can't make a move against them. Not now. There's too much at stake."

That didn't alter the waves of guilt she continually felt. By protecting Harley, wasn't she betraying the plants who had been her friends and loved ones for even longer? Billions of murders every year, and Ivy was selfishly allowing it to happen because of one human life.

"I'm taking other steps," Ivy said hurriedly. "The money I was counting on from Penguin's operations has finally started flowing. I've taken steps to form a charitable foundation whose mission is to buy as much unspoiled forest lands as possible. And I will make _certain_ that the fools who run Gotham's government budget sufficient funds to care for you properly."

Ivy's eyes stung all of a sudden. "I've abandoned you," she whispered miserably. "Sacrificed you. All to protect Harley. She's finally mine, but she requires such _care_. I'm so happy having her with me, but I can never be one hundred percent relaxed around her. I never know when she'll need my protection. Every day I lo . . ."

She looked down. She would apologize, ask for their forgiveness. But Ivy would not leave the path she'd set out on. Not when she had hurt Harley deeply. Not when she truly did love Harley. And not when Harley loved her back.

"I'm sorry," she said, digging her fingers into the soil as if it could strengthen her connection to the vibrant, beautiful lives around her. "But I don't have a choice. I'll do whatever it takes for her."

They'd loved her unconditionally since she was a teenager, but Ivy suspected that would change tonight.

After a few minutes of silence, she felt a tiny tug on the fingers of her left hand, very much like that first time in her parents' greenhouse. Ivy opened her eyes and looked at the violets by her hand.

What she felt from them was . . .

Acceptance?

Ivy stared, uncomprehendingly. She looked around her and found that, in yet another uncanny comparison to her first time, every living thing was pointing at her. "Don't you understand?" she asked helplessly. "I'm failing you. I've chosen something else over you. I'm no better than, than – the local florist!"

The responding wave of sensation dizzied her, and she put a hand to her head.

When her thoughts cleared, the overwhelming feeling was that of reassurance. From their simple perspective, the plants had come to see Harley as one of them. She had always been an endangered life that Ivy worried over endlessly. They didn't see her act as a betrayal, but rather like a shifting of priorities.

Ivy could have tried to enlighten them, but then she herself had compared Harley to a flower many times.

As for them, well, they had lived for millennia. They'd go on doing that.

The violets let go.

She brushed their stems carefully. "Thanks," she said. "Good night, I guess."

Poison Ivy wanted to get home before dawn. It was a beautiful thing, seeing Harley open up for the sun.

The end.

Author's Notes

Jenna is drawn from several specific events in continuity comics. She was one of the orphans who Ivy took in during No Man's Land. During Poison Ivy's last storyline prior to 52 and OYL, we learned that Jenna had obtained powers similar to Ivy's from, I believe, a government agency, and that she'd embarked on a crime spree. In the wake of Ivy's "death" in Gotham Knights #65, there was an implication that Pamela Isley was being retired and that Jenna would become "Poison Ivy II". Hence Jenna Leibowitz' belief that she could replace Ivy. ("Leibowitz" was a derivative of AJ Lieberman, who wrote Gotham Knights #61-65.)

Thanks and credit go out to Chris Dee for A. permitting me to write this spinoff from "String Theory" in the first place; B. allowing me to borrow events and dialogue from other Cat-Tales stories; and C. elevating this story to the level it achieved. Besides serving as the beta reader for every chapter, Chris helped me brainstorm practically the entire story, and proved extremely helpful with specific elements, esp. Selina's dialogue and POV.

Thanks also go out to the readers who stuck with this story through the years it took to write it. "Reap" is a fitting conclusion to my career as a fan fiction writer; while I may write little fics here and there in the future, particularly for my OTP, Harley/Ivy, Reap was my last big project and I will focus on original writing in the future. Thanks again.


End file.
